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Ohio Freeway Shootings Normal, Say LocalsDecember 8, 2003 |
Columbus-area hillrod points to physical evidence that he really did shoot an apple off his wife’s head
“The media likes to make a big deal out of this because of those Black Panthers or whatever it was shooting up the gas customers in D.C., but they’re just looking for something to sell,” explained lifelong resident Tammy Kennedy. “Actually this year’s not as bad as normal, I got shot three times last year. But I think that was partly because I was driving a red car. I sold that car and got one that blends in better with the road this year.”
“The thing you have to understand is it’s hunting season,” said Columbus mayor Richar...
ccording to Columbus residents, in spite drawing considerable national media attention the recent series of fourteen unsolved freeway shootings over the last few months are business as usual for the southern Ohio city.
“The media likes to make a big deal out of this because of those Black Panthers or whatever it was shooting up the gas customers in D.C., but they’re just looking for something to sell,” explained lifelong resident Tammy Kennedy. “Actually this year’s not as bad as normal, I got shot three times last year. But I think that was partly because I was driving a red car. I sold that car and got one that blends in better with the road this year.”
“The thing you have to understand is it’s hunting season,” said Columbus mayor Richard Freebing. “That always plays a factor. If this were happening in July, that might be cause for alarm… unless there had been a gun show recently. Then it would still be normal. Or if the Bengals won or something. But any time of year it happens. Once you strip away the media hype, all you know is that people get shot in Ohio. That’s it, big deal. So we’re not too worried about it. You have to accept that everybody gets shot, it’s just a fact of life.”
Ohio transport authorities closed a section of Interstate 270 Saturday night to perform ballistics tests in hopes of returning the bullets to their rightful owners. The 20-mile stretch of highway between I-70 East and I-70 West was closed from 5 p.m. EST to 7 p.m. EST Saturday, according to Chief Deputy Steve Martin of the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. The closure was made necessary so investigators from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms could take ballistics measurements while the road was clear of cars and gunfire. He said the work needs to be done at night but would not elaborate.
Unnamed sources for the commune, however, indicated that an escalating series of boasts between ATF agents had led to the necessity of the testing being done in pitch black, by blindfolded agents who had their hands tied behind their backs. Representatives for the ATF denied these allegations, explaining instead that the timing was for safety reasons, as field agents believed they’d be harder to shoot at night.
Thus far the 2003 Columbus shootings have resulted in only one death, that of 62-year-old Gail Knisley, who was hit by a stray bullet while she was shooting at a passing motorist who had cut her off in traffic. However, several abandoned buildings have been damaged in the shooting spree, and a local duck is listed in critical condition.
Though local residents believe the shootings are linked only by falling into the “stuff shot in Ohio” category, they have not been immune to the national media attention. Local police have had their hands full in recent weeks, fielding dozens of complaints from residents who want to be a part of the media circus. Sunday, a woman driving near the southern section of I-270 heard a noise and found she had a flat tire, according to police. No bullet was recovered in that incident, but the paint on the car was scratched and there were several “bullet hole” decals affixed to the driver-side door of the vehicle.
Early Monday, a home bordering that highway in the city of Obetz was struck by a bullet. No one was in the residence at the time, Martin said, holstering his revolver and whistling at his own impressive marksmanship. the commune news has never been shot, a fact we attribute to our strict policy of taking the term "flyover country" literally. Ramon Nootles has never fired a gun blindly over his shoulder while fleeing a drug deal gone bad, but he sure talks as if he has.
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 June 23, 2003
Volume 45Dear commune:
What’s the deal with my boyfriend? We’ve been together for three months now and he still hasn’t popped the question. I’ve been dropping hints left and right, but he just doesn’t seem to get it. I tore a page out of a wedding ring catalog, with my favorite ring circled, and slipped it into his bowhunting magazine, but he didn’t even notice. And whenever I say we should talk about our future, he says we should wait until all of the sinners have been harvested. I swear, between all his bowhunting and digging holes in the back yard, I’m not sure he’s even thinking about who we could get to cater the reception. Am I just missing the signs that he’s planning a fantastic romantic proposal, or do I need to give him an ultimatum?
Sincerely,
Confused in Connecticut
Dear Confused:
The only thing the commune loves more than a romantic ultimatum is a jailhouse wedding, so we say go for it! Most serial killers are afraid to commit, so be sure you catch him at the right time. Laying your cards on the table while he’s bathing in the blood of the vanquished or making a shish-ka-bob of eyeballs might just cause him to retreat into his emotional cave, or set him off on a tri-state killing spree, and then you won’t see him for weeks. Hit him up while he’s on a manic swing, maybe after he’s been reading about his exploits in the local paper. But act quick! Winning a man’s heart is all...
º Last Column: Volume 44
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Dear commune: What’s the deal with my boyfriend? We’ve been together for three months now and he still hasn’t popped the question. I’ve been dropping hints left and right, but he just doesn’t seem to get it. I tore a page out of a wedding ring catalog, with my favorite ring circled, and slipped it into his bowhunting magazine, but he didn’t even notice. And whenever I say we should talk about our future, he says we should wait until all of the sinners have been harvested. I swear, between all his bowhunting and digging holes in the back yard, I’m not sure he’s even thinking about who we could get to cater the reception. Am I just missing the signs that he’s planning a fantastic romantic proposal, or do I need to give him an ultimatum? Sincerely, Confused in ConnecticutDear Confused:
The only thing the commune loves more than a romantic ultimatum is a jailhouse wedding, so we say go for it! Most serial killers are afraid to commit, so be sure you catch him at the right time. Laying your cards on the table while he’s bathing in the blood of the vanquished or making a shish-ka-bob of eyeballs might just cause him to retreat into his emotional cave, or set him off on a tri-state killing spree, and then you won’t see him for weeks. Hit him up while he’s on a manic swing, maybe after he’s been reading about his exploits in the local paper. But act quick! Winning a man’s heart is all about timing, plus the FBI is combing your letter for fiber evidence as we speak.
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any lives we may have directly or indirectly ruined along the way. Staring in the rearview is no way to live your life, honey.º Last Column: Volume 44º more columns
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| September 16, 2002
Volume 25Dear commune:
By now you realize that your highly coveted and Pulitzer Prize winning reporter, Truman Prudy, is missing. At least we're pretty sure about the Pulitzer Prize part, someone suggested it might actually be a ribbon from the State Fair, but that someone also happens to be an asshole. Regardless, this is one valuable lump of man. Perhaps you blamed his disappearance on one of his frequent and well-publicized pornography binges, where he has been known to disappear for days on end before washing up on the shores of the Mississippi or another large body of water. We assure you that this is not the case in this instance. The uncomfortable tickle you feel crawling up the back of your throat is the slow dawning of a terrible realization. That's right. Our organization has captured your precious Trudy using a clever false storefront and a large tuna net. Tremble, as is your right in this situation. Kidnapping is the name of this game, and the Pop-O-Matic bubble has been depressed, and then released.
Our ransom demands are simple: publish our enclosed manifestos and give us all of your money. All of it. None of this "one million dollars in unmarked bills" bullshit. We don't know how much money you have, so it would be silly to ask for a million if you really have two million, then we'd be cheated out of half of our rightful ransom. If it turned out that you only have three-quarters of a million, then we'd be put in the awkward position of having to...
º Last Column: Volume 24
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Dear commune: By now you realize that your highly coveted and Pulitzer Prize winning reporter, Truman Prudy, is missing. At least we're pretty sure about the Pulitzer Prize part, someone suggested it might actually be a ribbon from the State Fair, but that someone also happens to be an asshole. Regardless, this is one valuable lump of man. Perhaps you blamed his disappearance on one of his frequent and well-publicized pornography binges, where he has been known to disappear for days on end before washing up on the shores of the Mississippi or another large body of water. We assure you that this is not the case in this instance. The uncomfortable tickle you feel crawling up the back of your throat is the slow dawning of a terrible realization. That's right. Our organization has captured your precious Trudy using a clever false storefront and a large tuna net. Tremble, as is your right in this situation. Kidnapping is the name of this game, and the Pop-O-Matic bubble has been depressed, and then released. Our ransom demands are simple: publish our enclosed manifestos and give us all of your money. All of it. None of this "one million dollars in unmarked bills" bullshit. We don't know how much money you have, so it would be silly to ask for a million if you really have two million, then we'd be cheated out of half of our rightful ransom. If it turned out that you only have three-quarters of a million, then we'd be put in the awkward position of having to return to you three-quarters of Truman Prudy, and none of us are especially excited about figuring out how to go about that business. And after all, a masked robber on the street doesn't brandish a gun and demand ten dollars of your money. They ask for it all. We'd like to think we're at least as enterprising as your common street hoodlum. Alas, the journalistic integrity of your organization hangs in the balance. Everything that the commune stands for teeters perilously over the breech! Waver not in your steadfast dedication to what is right and good. Pay up. A nation of Truman Prudy fans are depending on you. The Northwestern Omaha Book Club for Guys
Omaha, NEDear Northwestern Omaha Book Club for Guys:
After asking around the commune offices for at least an hour, we have come to the conclusion that there is a 60% chance that Truman Prudy is a commune employee of some sort. Personally, we've never heard of him or his State Fair ribbon, though it does sound impressive. Upon relaying your requests to commune editor Red Bagel, we were instructed to get the commune water cannon out of deep storage. However, we're pretty sure it's all the way in the back behind some heavy shit that hasn't been moved since forever, so we are eager to reach an alternative solution to this dilemma.
In accordance with your demands, we are willing to offer up two cans of creamed sprouts and these free promotional tickets to an upcoming screening of Little Goomba, which Roland McShyster has been using to wedge into the back door so that it doesn't lock behind him when he goes out on smoke breaks. We know you asked for all our money, but trust us when we say this is by far the better deal.
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the Hammond Island barge fire, we just said it sounded like a good idea and provided the blueprints.º Last Column: Volume 24º more columns
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Quote of the Day“I can't quit you babe… you got me locked into a 24-month exclusive contraaaaact… oh yes you do oh yes you do… your early termination fees are givin' me the blues… I been on hold so long baby now so long now ba-by yeah… I know you're on the line with a-nother man and it's breakin my heeeeart in two…”
-Naked Mole Rat JeffersonFortune 500 CookieYou will find true love this week, but you'll return it because it smells funny. Try using words like "adage" and "usage" less frequently; you think it makes you sound smart, everybody else thinks you're turning into Pauly Shore. Don't hesitate to fire blindly into a crowd of strangers this week: hesitation can be deadly. This week's lucky trucks: ice cream, any variety being washed by bikini babes, Gaelic Motors' 4WD Clover, any whose manufacturers don't run commercials claiming they're "like Iraq."
Try again later.Top Scientific Discoveries, Week of 5/21/07| 1. | People hoarding "Forever" stamps deficient in inflation-understanding genes | | 2. | Long middle fingers connected to aggressive tendencies in men | | 3. | Fish oil aids in weight loss by grossing you all the fuck out | | 4. | Most effective beauty tip for women: Get men drunk | | 5. | Gay animals choose homosexual lifestyle | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 2/14/2005 A Time for DeadHis pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers.
"Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself...
His pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers. "Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself to be the exception. He would admit to friends, if he'd had any, that this was an unusual mission. He thought he'd seen it all during his eight year tenure as a highly in-demand rogue double agent, and one so skilled he'd been able to skip the normal single agent phase entirely, shooting straight into the big time of espionage. But he'd never been asked to shoot a deer before. At first he thought it must be a typo, written with a finger in the dust on his car's passenger side window, the way he always received his top secret missions. He'd figured Deer must be the last name of some deadly ex-KGB killing machine proficient in seventeen languages and Russo-karate. But over his customary eighteen months of research and preparation, Chowheim realized how wrong he had been. This was no ordinary deer. This deer had vital information about nukes in the former Eskimo stronghold of Newfoundland, Canada. A mole deer, a triple agent. A triple agent was the most impressive and complicated thing a spy could be, man or beast, since anyone who attempted to make the leap to quadruple agent invariably got confused and ended up just becoming the regular plain vanilla agent they were pretending to be during the course of their subterfuge times four. When Chowheim thought about it, he realized how perfect the plan had been. Nobody ever expects a deer. National reaction to the Disney film Bambi had been overwhelmingly positive ever since it opened on 1,517 screens in 1942. Entire generations of Americans were ripe for this con. And with a deer's average lifespan of 17.4 years in the Northern hemisphere, there was plenty of time for ample training and invaluable field experience before the serious missions began. Plus, he'd heard deer could run pretty fast. Always a handy trick to have up one's triple-agenting sleeve when in a pinch. Chowheim calibrated his sights again to compensate for the warming early-morning air. It was an odd place to expect a deer, a busy Manhattan street on a Tuesday morning, but double agents thrive on expecting the unexpected, and triple agents thrive on hiding in plain sight. This deer was good. Then he appeared. Casually, by a newspaper stand. Chowheim aimed for the pulmonary aortal junction, the surest kill spot for a male buck deer without rolling the dice on a dicey skull shot. Remembering his months spent in veterinary school and the additional weeks he spent wearing a deer suit in the wild, Chowheim aimed just below the junction, allowing gravity to do some of the bleeding work for him. It was no use taking his chances creating a geyser of deer blood squirting up into the air, which some passing Good Samaritan might catch in a bucket and use to save the rogue deer's life. Chowheim squeezed off a silent round without needing to look, and quickly broke down his rifle. After changing his clothes, facial hair and blood type on his way down the stairwell, Chowheim made a point of weaving into the crowd gathering around the ex-triple agent deer's now-lifeless body. Market research had shown that the last person anyone suspects is the guy with the handlebar mustache walking towards the action. Chowheim cast a quick glance streetward to admire his handiwork as he passed, then froze in his tracks like a glacier hitting a landmine. Something wasn't right. Something very wasn't right. Just then Chowheim realized he'd shot a dog. Not even a particularly deer-like dog, either, it was a French poodle. Shit, Chowheim thought. Then he thought shit again. After a quick calculation of odds, counter-odds, and evens in his head, he realized it was time for Plan D. Quadruple-agency, here he came. For more of this great story, buy Turner Volst's
A Time for Dead   |
