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April 4, 2005 |
Messier, Idaho Sloe Lorenzo Alleged disaster perpetrator Bert Woodland, who includes among his array of cruel pranks an all-kazoo version of âStairway to Heaven.â or a third year in a row, a young Messier, Idaho, boy has continued to miss the point entirely concerning his April Foolâs Day pranks. The boyâs jests are described as âcruel and maliciousâ by Messier police and have resulted in the wrongful arrest of six individuals and the hospitalization of two with severe injuries.
Identified by a spiteful member of the police department as Messier Elementary sixth-grader Bert Woodland, the boy has perpetrated another spree of April Foolâs jokes this past Friday, unleashing more terror on a town that had hoped it had seen the last of unfunny, âjust plain meanâ practical jokes. Two of Fridayâs five harshest April Foolâs incidents have already been traced back to Woodland, and police believe they will eventually tie all ...
or a third year in a row, a young Messier, Idaho, boy has continued to miss the point entirely concerning his April Foolâs Day pranks. The boyâs jests are described as âcruel and maliciousâ by Messier police and have resulted in the wrongful arrest of six individuals and the hospitalization of two with severe injuries.
Identified by a spiteful member of the police department as Messier Elementary sixth-grader Bert Woodland, the boy has perpetrated another spree of April Foolâs jokes this past Friday, unleashing more terror on a town that had hoped it had seen the last of unfunny, âjust plain meanâ practical jokes. Two of Fridayâs five harshest April Foolâs incidents have already been traced back to Woodland, and police believe they will eventually tie all of the crimes back to the little prick.
Among the more destructive of Fridayâs pranks was the non-lethal firing of a handgun within a hospital emergency room, greasing the ladder of a local fire engine (resulting in the injury of a fireman at the scene of a blaze), and the mailing of a cowheart to the parents or a girl who had been missing for five months. Even the townspeople of Messier, Idaho, who claim to have really warped senses of humor agree thereâs funny and then thereâs just abusing people.
Police had similar run-ins with Woodlandâs unfunny assaults on the innocent on two previous April Foolâs Days, the most severe incident being last yearâs burying alive of Woodlandâs brother, Cory. While the parents refused to press charges against their own son, it did raise police awareness that the pranksterâs sense of humor was not getting better and earned him the universal designation of âsick fuckâ from everyone in Messier.
âThat little shit put a rattlesnake in my mailbox,â said elderly neighbor Huntz Vohlman. âNot a plastic one, a live rattlesnake. If I hadnât heard the sound it would have caught me when it lunged out to bite. Iâm telling you, thatâs not normal. I havenât been out of my house on the first of April for the last two years.â
Vohlmanâs fear was generally shared by everyone in Messier. Principal of Messier Elementary Arlene Fredericks cancelled school when all the teachers threatened not to come on the dreaded âA-Day,â petrified by Woodlandâs potential destruction.
Substitute teacher Martin Kohl: âLast year I showed up and didnât even know it was April Foolâs. But I found out soon enough. The kid tossed a quarter stick of dynamite at meânot a firecracker, you hear, but a real partial stick of dynamite. The doctors couldnât even reattach my right index finger. Whenâs someone going to explain humor to this kid?â
University of Idaho Child Psychologist Will Raymond studied Woodland last year following his second April Foolâs arrest.
âYoung Bert has obviously misinterpreted the spirit of the holiday,â said Raymond. âIn modern times, April the first is a day when we all try to lighten up a bit, stop taking ourselves so seriously, and make a game out of embarrassing our friends and neighborsâthose weâre fond of. Instead, Bert uses it as an excuse to lash out with his insidious wit and damage others, either emotionally or physically, or sometimes both. He is, I believe, a purely anti-social personality with just enough a sense of morality to need an excuseâlike April Foolâs Dayâto ignite his malicious behavior. At first I believed he had a rich history of emotional abuse which he concealed with his terror. Later on I found out he was just an asshole.â
Raymond declined an invitation to study the boy again, since after last yearâs visit Woodland posted his image on a website for registered sex offenders; Raymond also suspects the boyâs the reason heâs been getting amorous letters from the Idaho State Menâs Penitentiary. the commune news celebrated April Foolâs Day the way we always have: Raising our eyebrows and offering a sort of bored smile when someone makes an idiotic joke and tells us the date. Bludney Pludd is our favorite April Fool, all year âround.
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 October 24, 2011
Eighth Theistthe commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.
Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananasâthere's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.
I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.
Have you ever found that Russian novelists, classic Russian novelists especially, are obsessed with depictions of death? Americans, on the other hand, maybe all western novelists, seem more concerned with depictions of life; however, it may be argued that it is the Russian novelist who has the courage to face reality, while what we write about indicates our need to escape that grim reality. This might be changed considerably if more Russian novelists wrote in English. Russian is a hard language to write in. Trying to figure it out makes you suicidal. That's my guess.
Has there ever been a cereal called Nutsack Crunch? I'm thinking maybe a cluster-type cereal, sold in a canvas...
º Last Column: Eighth is Enough º more columns
the commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.
Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananasâthere's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.
I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.
Have you ever found that Russian novelists, classic Russian novelists especially, are obsessed with depictions of death? Americans, on the other hand, maybe all western novelists, seem more concerned with depictions of life; however, it may be argued that it is the Russian novelist who has the courage to face reality, while what we write about indicates our need to escape that grim reality. This might be changed considerably if more Russian novelists wrote in English. Russian is a hard language to write in. Trying to figure it out makes you suicidal. That's my guess.
Has there ever been a cereal called Nutsack Crunch? I'm thinking maybe a cluster-type cereal, sold in a canvas bag. If there hasn't, good. Cereal manufacturers be warned: What were you thinking? The mere sound of it puts most people off their appetites. Nutsack Crunch⌠Jesus.
Now a cereal named Jesus, on the other hand, that's bankable. No better way to start your day. In my opinion.
Oasis is now banned from performing in this country. They know why.
It should have been obvious General Custer would meet his end at Little Big Horn. Little Horn? Big Horn? The place was clearly named to confuse the white man. That's why I never stage any battles there.
What would you do for a Klondike Bar? Wait, don't agree to anything too fast. I found one today in the frozen foods section of my local grocery store. All the humiliation I've endured, they were just sitting there for sale the whole time. The whole time. Not even that expensive.
Remember when they used to say "Mike Connors is Mannix"? I kept waiting for that to come up in the show, but no matter how frequently they reminded us of the fact, I never saw it amount to anything. I expected a big "I am Spartacus" moment that never happened. What a waste.
I had a job selling car stereos once, and the manager used to tell us to go "balls out" during any big sales push. Let me save you some trouble and warn you right now, it doesn't sell any more car stereos. Boxer shorts, perhaps, but not car stereos. Then the manager had the nerve to get mad at me.
Do you know the Muffin Man? The Muffin Man? The Muffin Man. Don't trust that son of a bitch. The first one was free, then he jacked up the price. Now I've got a muffin problem.
I'm telling everyone now: If I'm ever hooked up to a machine to keep me alive, promise me you'll tell me in detail exactly how that machine works. It sounds unbelievable. A machine?!? That keeps people alive?!? Wow. Just⌠wow. So tell me all about it, assuming I'm not a catatonic pile of flesh and bones.
That's all I can stands, I can't stands no more. º Last Column: Eighth is Enoughº more columns
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|  March 18, 2002
The "M" Stands for Music!Loyal followers of All Things Coleman know my middle initial is M. Those of you who keep details anally (and I don't mean that literally, disgusting thought) think that stands for Mershowitz. Nope! The "M" stands for music! Legally, too, I had it changed at 3 a.m. a couple of days ago. I didn't even know they did that in Vegas at those hours.
Everybody's talking about the 80's right now, especially 80's music. And I couldn't be happier. Finally we're getting back to what makes rock greatâsynthesizers and pastel spandex. This time, Clarissa Coleman's going to be a part of the New Wave re-revolution.
That's right, I've started a band. We're still debating names. Some in the band want to call it The Clarissa Coleman Experience, but the rest of them don't want us to become a novelty act or something. I personally don't want to capitalize on my prior successes, unless it makes us really popular. Still, there's other names that could do that. We're considering Stone Cold Burrito, The Fat-Ass Quakers, Your Mother Likes My Dick, and The Flaccid Band. The guys in the band aren't real keen on that last one, so we'll probably go with something else.
I'm personally leaning toward something that sounds really New Wave, like my favorite bands. I've offered Kaja-Schitzu, Spandex Opera, B.O.M. (Big Orchestra Music), The Eurothmicks (legally we can't use that), The Bobble Heads, The Taliban Twins, and Flock of Assholes. None of the band likes any of...
º Last Column: I've Had Plenty of Inappropriate Relationships º more columns
Loyal followers of All Things Coleman know my middle initial is M. Those of you who keep details anally (and I don't mean that literally, disgusting thought) think that stands for Mershowitz. Nope! The "M" stands for music! Legally, too, I had it changed at 3 a.m. a couple of days ago. I didn't even know they did that in Vegas at those hours.
Everybody's talking about the 80's right now, especially 80's music. And I couldn't be happier. Finally we're getting back to what makes rock greatâsynthesizers and pastel spandex. This time, Clarissa Coleman's going to be a part of the New Wave re-revolution.
That's right, I've started a band. We're still debating names. Some in the band want to call it The Clarissa Coleman Experience, but the rest of them don't want us to become a novelty act or something. I personally don't want to capitalize on my prior successes, unless it makes us really popular. Still, there's other names that could do that. We're considering Stone Cold Burrito, The Fat-Ass Quakers, Your Mother Likes My Dick, and The Flaccid Band. The guys in the band aren't real keen on that last one, so we'll probably go with something else.
I'm personally leaning toward something that sounds really New Wave, like my favorite bands. I've offered Kaja-Schitzu, Spandex Opera, B.O.M. (Big Orchestra Music), The Eurothmicks (legally we can't use that), The Bobble Heads, The Taliban Twins, and Flock of Assholes. None of the band likes any of my suggestions for band names, and they keep rejecting my songs and lyrics. Personally I think "I Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Flunked My Driver's Test" was a classic waiting to happen, and "Put on A Me Suit" still breaks my heart. Sooner or later they have to let me contribute. I am the backup singer and cowbell player, after all.
We've played three shows so far, and let me tell you, "backup singer" is just a title. I steal the show and everybody knows it. I've even had the lead singer Misha tell me to keep quiet or shut-up on occasion, everybody was listening to my vocals more. We actually got into a fight at the third show, but like all good bands and families, we make up afterwards, or just don't talk to each other for a long time until it's all forgotten. Apparently that bitch Misha is taking that route.
We're yet to record any demos, we're still in the process of gathering the money. The band naturally assumed I had millions of dollars, since I'm practically a household name like Sting or Lemon Joy, and were pretty upset to find out I had no money. We even talked about disbanding the band, starting with me, but I convinced them to hang in there and with all my contacts in the business and entertainment world I could get the money together for great demos.
It's just as well since we haven't really decided on our sound. Most of the audience doesn't even know we're New Wave yet. Most of the band doesn't know it, they think we're Christian Rock, hence the working name of Jesus Fish, but once we can agree on the way we sound and our name and how we dress (I still like the idea of purple Outbreak suits) we'll be the biggest new band on the planet. This planet, folks. Warzy, eh?
In the mean time I'm just going to be the silent team leader and be a professional about my rehearsals. I still can't really sing "the Lord is my savior" without laughing. º Last Column: I've Had Plenty of Inappropriate Relationshipsº more columns
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Quote of the Day“You can't tell me what to do. Unless I was already just about to do the thing you said. Then I'll do what you say, but not because you said to do it. Hold on; let me draw up a flow chart.”
-Pistain JohnsonFortune 500 CookieIn retrospect, it was a mistake to name your jewelry store "Who Faahted?" Try learning a new song this week: Everybody's sick of the theme from Ice Pirates. You'll get lucky in the market this week: all your stocks will plummet, but you're going to get laid by a butcher. This week's lucky terms of endearment: Ninjatits, Daddy's Little Freebaser, Grape Ape, President Precious, Monsieur Brabuster.
Try again later.Top Frustrating Wi-Fi Dead Spots| 1. | Flower bed outside ex-wife's bedroom window | | 2. | Antarctica. Most of it. | | 3. | Men's room at the zoo | | 4. | Twilight Zone | | 5. | Raging Waters: the whole goddamned theme park | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Anderson Jeans 1/24/2005 VietNAMBLANobody loves a weird-ass.
That's the lesson of Vietnam, when you boil it all down. All the napalm, choppers, unintelligible macho screaming and ping-pong recede into a garish blur one day and only that truth remains. I learned it the hard way. In Vietnam.
It was a cold January morning in Phu Bai and I was out on patrol with little Marky Jujitz, a four-foot-tall paratrooper from Pine Hive, Arkansas. Jujitz was a spastic, both in personality and in medical reality. He could talk faster than a broke man in a cathouse, and he could juggle cats. Or maybe more correctly he had to juggle cats. If there were cats in the room, or sometimes even in the neighborhood, Marky couldn't sit still until those cats were flying through the air all at once, screaming and...
Nobody loves a weird-ass.
That's the lesson of Vietnam, when you boil it all down. All the napalm, choppers, unintelligible macho screaming and ping-pong recede into a garish blur one day and only that truth remains. I learned it the hard way. In Vietnam.
It was a cold January morning in Phu Bai and I was out on patrol with little Marky Jujitz, a four-foot-tall paratrooper from Pine Hive, Arkansas. Jujitz was a spastic, both in personality and in medical reality. He could talk faster than a broke man in a cathouse, and he could juggle cats. Or maybe more correctly he had to juggle cats. If there were cats in the room, or sometimes even in the neighborhood, Marky couldn't sit still until those cats were flying through the air all at once, screaming and pissing on the ceiling. According to the story, Jujitz was barred from every pet store and veterinary hospital back in Pine Hive, they even had his picture up. Marky's great regret about being sent to Vietnam was that he had been two weeks into veterinary school at the time, having finally found a loophole that would allow him to handle cats without raising suspicion. They only gave the students dead cats, but Jujitz didn't care. They were easier to juggle.
I told Jujitz to hang back while I took a Vietnamese leak. Marky watched the road for paparazzi as the tendrils of steam curled and peeled away from my piss stream in the bracing Vietnamese cold. It had to be at least 74 degrees out there.
I guess Jujitz only anticipated paparazzi coming from the North, because he never even looked up the road the other way and was run over by a supply truck while I was out pissing. So there you go, requiem for a weird-ass Arkansas spazz midget.
My one salvation inside the gaping maw of wet, jungle hell was Sing-Li, a beautiful Vietnamese woman I met in Saigon and married right before I got my walking papers. She was the only thing pure and good I took out of that godforsaken hellhole, and only thanks to her did I return with my humanity intact.
Some time after we got back to America, I was embarrassed to discover that my wife was actually a 14-year-old Vietnamese boy. What the fuck kind of country is it where they name a boy Sing? Seemed pretty girly to me, even by Asian standards. That's when I finally understood what they meant by the saying, "Vietnam is Hell."
Now I was married to a 14-year-old foreign boy, and worse, I was starting to get NAMBLA flyers in the mail. Those guys are like magic, it's amazing. I could have used that kind of perceptiveness back in 'Nam.
Things got a little uncomfortable for a while there, until Sing got run over by a supply truck on his way to school one day. Turns out I should have taught him about sidewalks, one of the many differences between Vietnam and America.
It was a cold September morning in Planey, no comfort to be found in the relentless powder blue sky. The cruel realities of Vietnam and life bloomed across my mind as I rolled slowly past Sing's poorly-attended funeral, then peeled out and drove to Arby's.
Nobody loves a weird-ass.
For more of this great story, buy Anderson Jeans'
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