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 May 31, 2004 |
Crawford, TX Assad the Unseen President Bush, seen both after and (inset) during his hilarious battle with gravity
“Even when things don’t go exactly as planned, and you hit a goddamned pothole on the road to liberation, you’ve got to climb back on that nation and ride her home,” Bush declared. Though the vaguely sexual imagery unnerved some, many felt that this was one of the most successful of the president’s many...
n a move pundits suspect was designed to improve the president’s poll numbers among the nation’s comedy writers, George W. Bush ate complete shit off a bike during a ride at his Texas ranch last Sunday afternoon. The president spoke for reporters while covered in several comical facial bandages and wearing an arm sling this week to address the topic of his crash, which Bush claims he participated in to prove a point about his increasingly unpopular Iraq policy.
“Even when things don’t go exactly as planned, and you hit a goddamned pothole on the road to liberation, you’ve got to climb back on that nation and ride her home,” Bush declared. Though the vaguely sexual imagery unnerved some, many felt that this was one of the most successful of the president’s many pathetic attempts to save face after an embarrassing mishap.
Many were reminded of the well-publicized shit-eating º the president performed off a Segway human transporter at his father’s summer home last year, happier times for a higher polling president who was then able blame technology for his clod-like behavior. Others were also reminded of a January 2002 incident in which a pretzel got the better of the president during an attempt at eating, ending with Bush’s dramatic tumble into a coffee table. Though that incident shared little in common with the president’s latest tussle with gravity, many still enjoy bringing up the story at the flimsiest pretext.
Bush claims that a rabbit darted out in front of his bike on Sunday, forcing him to heroically swerve onto a treacherous rocky outcropping to avoid going Paperboy on the adorably wayward rodent. Other witnesses claim the president ate shit on smooth pavement after removing one hand from the bicycle’s handlebars to scratch his asshole.
The president was accompanied on the ride by his personal doctor, bicycle riding coach Noel Yongstrem, a Secret Service agent, and some neighborhood kids who tagged along to make fun of the Bush’s lame bike. According to eyewitness reports, Bush’s crash elicited peals of laughter, pointing, and sarcastic clapping from everyone in the group except the unnamed Secret Service agent, who panicked and ran off into the woods, leaving the downed president to fend for himself.
Bush suffered minor abrasions to his chin, upper lip, nose, right hand and both knees in the accident, but the most serious injury was to the president’s pride, White House spokesman Trent Duffy said. Despite the spill, Bush was able to bravely ride the rest of the way home with only minor sniveling and a snotty nose.
Surprisingly, the president sustained his injuries in spite of witness reports that he was wearing a helmet and mouth guard at the time of the accident. White House doctors believe this can be explained by the fact that Bush’s helmet likely came off during the crash, since the straps had been tied in a knot under his chin due to the president’s ongoing difficulty with latches, snaps and buttons.
According to the White House, President Bush has expressed a desire to ride in cars from now on, leaving two-wheeled transportation “to kids and the Chinese.” No word yet on whether or not he’s going to keep up with the helmet and mouth guard. the commune news isn’t one to talk, since the last time we were on a bike we ended up on the COPS Greatest Hits: Wacky Tabacky video. Lil Duncan has never had a notable biking mishap that we’ve heard about, though word is she once fell off a dyke and skinned her knee.
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Colin Powell resigns, makes audible "phew" noise
High Friends, Frasier ratings inspire NBC to end all current sitcoms
Cantor Fitzgerald to take al-Qaeda before Judge Judy
Phone porn: Can you hear me now?
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Brit Sailor Apology Video Obviously Just Photo with Superimposed Talking Lips “.XXX” Domain Reserved for Adult Content Sites, Online Moonshiners “Female Sex Patch” Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough |
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 November 7, 2005
Paging Doctor VanA quart of bad milk later and I'm on the way to the hospital. "Stomach pump, stomach pump," that's all I heard on the way up there. Then I threw up in the doctor van and felt better instantly. They didn't even take me all the way to the hospital. I didn't even get a lift back home either, and I told them I didn't mind riding home in the same van. They were pissed or something, but it's not my fault. Or I suppose it is. But it's not my fault in the way that all of our destiny is predetermined.
Did you know they call those hospital vans ambulances? Learn something new every day, and about once a month something sticks. But all this crap got me thinking about ambulances.
I didn't know this, but those guys who ride around in the "ambulances" aren't doctors at all. Sure, they got some medical training, they're licensed to perform CPR and they can sell drugs out of the back, but they're not full-fledged doctors. Which stinks. I don't want some guy who smells like exhaust and trucker speed to work on me if he's not a doctor. That's where I got my latest idea—they should make doctor training easier. Make it so half the people in the world can be doctors. It's basically the same thing they did with public school courses. More people pass, more people are certified, and everyone feels better since we have the false idea everyone's properly trained.
Really, how often are you going to need a real fully properly-trained doctor anyway? Once in a blue...
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A quart of bad milk later and I'm on the way to the hospital. "Stomach pump, stomach pump," that's all I heard on the way up there. Then I threw up in the doctor van and felt better instantly. They didn't even take me all the way to the hospital. I didn't even get a lift back home either, and I told them I didn't mind riding home in the same van. They were pissed or something, but it's not my fault. Or I suppose it is. But it's not my fault in the way that all of our destiny is predetermined. Did you know they call those hospital vans ambulances? Learn something new every day, and about once a month something sticks. But all this crap got me thinking about ambulances. I didn't know this, but those guys who ride around in the "ambulances" aren't doctors at all. Sure, they got some medical training, they're licensed to perform CPR and they can sell drugs out of the back, but they're not full-fledged doctors. Which stinks. I don't want some guy who smells like exhaust and trucker speed to work on me if he's not a doctor. That's where I got my latest idea—they should make doctor training easier. Make it so half the people in the world can be doctors. It's basically the same thing they did with public school courses. More people pass, more people are certified, and everyone feels better since we have the false idea everyone's properly trained. Really, how often are you going to need a real fully properly-trained doctor anyway? Once in a blue moon, at least, and let's face it, you were probably going to die when he left his watch in your chest anyway. So the next time someone is choking at your local restaurant, you can raise your hand and tell them, "Excuse me, I'm a doctor." Then cut their neck open and just take the McNugget right out with your bare hands. I'm not sure what's involved in sealing the neck back up so it works right, but that's the kind of training we don't need. Let the super doctors or whatever the regular guys are do that. We'll just freeze the neck so they can reattach it later. You can freeze things and reattach them now. It's just one of our modern medical miracles, and I saw it on the TV. Come to think of it, is there really any reason we have to drive sick people around in a van? None, so far as I can tell. It's just more to clean up when they throw up and don't get to go to the hospital anyway. Most of these guys probably aren't going to make it anyway. I say we should buy Camaros and Thunderbirds, all sorts of really cool convertible cars. For one thing, then everyone would suddenly want to be an ambulance doctor—they might even go through the full hard training! But the main thing is, if you're choking on a McNugget and about to die, and you're not going to make it anyway, wouldn't you rather be going full speed toward the hospital in a car like the Knight Rider rather than some big clunky van that can't even drive on its side wheels if it needs it? I know my answer. If you see me zipping by you on the freeway, driving a really hot car with some guy turning purple in the passenger seat, you'll know I made my dream a reality. But keep your windows rolled up, in case he pukes. º Last Column: Lost Leavingsº more columns
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|  November 10, 2003
Volume 55Dear commune:
I had to write after reading the letter from "Brokenhearted Mom in Virginia." My 14-year-old daughter developed an Internet relationship with a now 21-year-old man when she was 10. By the time she was 12, he was drawing her into a deeply dysfunctional relationship. Unbeknownst to her, he was a mental patient who was obsessed with suicide and self-mutilation. "Brokenhearted Mom" needs to act quickly before the same thing happens to her daughter.
Wiser in Worcester
Dear Wiser:
the commune was touched by your touching letter and hilarious name. Someone has probably pointed this out to you previously, but did you realize your name also doubles as a descriptive phrase? That’s too much. It could even do triple-duty as a ham radio handle. Man, how funny to be you.
In regards to your letter, at first we here at the commune thought it might have been misdirected, given that we’ve never published a letter from "Brokenhearted Mom in Virginia." Believe us, we’d remember a name like that. The fact that your letter wasn’t addressed to us and was found out in the hallway inside a sack of stolen credit card applications also raised a few eyebrows. But by the time we got to the end of your letter, we realized you had the right place and the universe was just getting your letter to us by an unconventional means of delivery.
We can only guess that "Brokenhearted Mom in Virginia" wrote to...
º Last Column: Volume 54
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Dear commune: I had to write after reading the letter from "Brokenhearted Mom in Virginia." My 14-year-old daughter developed an Internet relationship with a now 21-year-old man when she was 10. By the time she was 12, he was drawing her into a deeply dysfunctional relationship. Unbeknownst to her, he was a mental patient who was obsessed with suicide and self-mutilation. "Brokenhearted Mom" needs to act quickly before the same thing happens to her daughter. Wiser in WorcesterDear Wiser:
the commune was touched by your touching letter and hilarious name. Someone has probably pointed this out to you previously, but did you realize your name also doubles as a descriptive phrase? That’s too much. It could even do triple-duty as a ham radio handle. Man, how funny to be you.
In regards to your letter, at first we here at the commune thought it might have been misdirected, given that we’ve never published a letter from "Brokenhearted Mom in Virginia." Believe us, we’d remember a name like that. The fact that your letter wasn’t addressed to us and was found out in the hallway inside a sack of stolen credit card applications also raised a few eyebrows. But by the time we got to the end of your letter, we realized you had the right place and the universe was just getting your letter to us by an unconventional means of delivery.
We can only guess that "Brokenhearted Mom in Virginia" wrote to you directly, and you wanted to share your response with the world so all might benefit, either that or there was a chocolate smudge on the envelope covering her return address. No worries, as that happens to us all the time, only sometimes it’s not chocolate.
Lastly, though we think your advice to "Heartbroken Mom" is sound and responsible, we must stress that commune reporter Bludney Pludd isn’t really as dangerous as he seems over the Internet. Don’t worry, we get this kind of stuff all the time, no need to be embarrassed. But we assure you that "Brokenhearted’s" daughter is in no more danger than any of the other 12-year-olds Pludd’s been dating, unless of course she’s allergic to roller-skating. Like they say, you’re only as old as you feel, and trust us when we say Bludney Pludd feels about ten years old to everyone he meets.
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any broken hearts or promises resulting from Bludney Pludd not taking your daughter to the Jr. High prom. Bludney is a busy young man with many responsibilities and EverQuest meetings every Friday evening.º Last Column: Volume 54º more columns
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Quote of the Day“I never met a man I didn't like, want to kill.”
-Dill "California Angst" WongersFortune 500 CookieYou will fall in love with a new douche this week, a fact that unfortunately has nothing at all to do with feminine hygiene. Try to pay more attention to your figure: word on the street is you're upgrading from "pear-shaped" to "sack of shit-y." You will finally come to understand the phrase "fifteen men on a dead man's chest" this week, thanks to an unfortunate dogpile mishap. Your lucky perfumes: Colonic for Men, Goat's Dong, Eau Du Crapper.
Try again later.Top 5 Reasons You Won't Have to Kick Around the commune For Anymore| 1. | It’s expensive to run state of the art website and Dippin’ Dots franchise at the same time | | 2. | You assholes simply refused to spell our name appropriately in lowercase letters | | 3. | All of this was for date with girl at Blockbuster; she don’t work there no more | | 4. | Less writing and online publishing leaves more time to hang out at coffee shop writing thinly veiled autobiographic novel | | 5. | You never loved us | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Beck Steinman 12/13/2004 Mousey MenThe sun descriptively climbed under the clouds, playing peek-a-boo with California as it squatted behind the distant hills, to take a cosmic dump. Joe and Britches came to a cool glen, which is not slang for a guy named Glen who is "holding," but instead a lake area with a refreshing pond. They washed their muddy hands and laughed loudly. Then they drank the water they had just washed their muddy hands in, which is gross.
"We're sure living the high life now, ain't we Joe?" said Britches.
Laughing even louder, Joe agreed. "We sure are, Britches. I got a good feeling about California. The fruits on the trees is so ripe they fall right into yer hands, just like everyone done told us. Yep, I can't see ever running into any miserable irony in a land so gosh-darned...
The sun descriptively climbed under the clouds, playing peek-a-boo with California as it squatted behind the distant hills, to take a cosmic dump. Joe and Britches came to a cool glen, which is not slang for a guy named Glen who is "holding," but instead a lake area with a refreshing pond. They washed their muddy hands and laughed loudly. Then they drank the water they had just washed their muddy hands in, which is gross.
"We're sure living the high life now, ain't we Joe?" said Britches.
Laughing even louder, Joe agreed. "We sure are, Britches. I got a good feeling about California. The fruits on the trees is so ripe they fall right into yer hands, just like everyone done told us. Yep, I can't see ever running into any miserable irony in a land so gosh-darned bee-yoo-ti-ful."
"I loves it when you speak phonetically, Joe," grinned Britches. He was an idiot man-child, but don't tell him I said so, if he ever asks you. I'm not trying to sound mean, it's just a fair description. A big old dipshit, dumb as a bag of Quayles, but with a kinder heart than you ever laid eyes on, assuming you're in the business of going around ripping kind hearts out of people's chests.
His partner, traveling partner, nothing funny going on, Joe, was a short man, who blamed his height on account of his legs being so close to the ground. Joe was the brains of their little group, of course, since the idea of very big men with brains is offensive to short men everywhere, like my publisher. He and Britches had been traveling together for months, and they found it a good partnership. Joe was always there to count Britches' money, so the bosses didn't short-change him anything, as well as help him with difficult tasks like putting his shoes on his feet, instead of his hands, which had helped Britches double his work output. In exchange, Britches was big and muscular, and good for getting Joe out of jams, like all the times he got into fights in bars loudly mouthing off about girl scouts.
Things had gotten tight, though, in the place they were from—Hawaii. So they headed east, to California, where they heard stories about all the beauty and pastoral, untouched nature, except for the dense smog. A fellow could get work there, too, people promised them. Joe and Britches loved to listen to liars, which was probably a fault they should have worried about. But for now, the worries were gone—they had made it to California, and could hardly wait to find work picking fruit. They'd pick anything, for the right price—apples, grapes, peaches, noses, what the hell.
Joe splashed the water on his grimy skin. He laughed even harder, nearly passing out. "Golly, Britches, if that water don't feel good after all that train dust. We should wash up good, 'fore we go looking for work. You smell like something crawled up your armpits and died."
"Just the one," said Britches, and he took a dead bird from his armpit.
Joe's smile dramatically vanished. "Now, Britches—what did I tell you?"
"Just because a man has sex with another man, it don't mean he's gay."
"No, the thing about pets," shouted Joe, pointing with anger.
Britches slunk guiltily as he sat against a log, the dead bird in his hands. "I know… I can't have no pets. 'Cause I'm too big, and not all that intelligent. But I swear it, Joe, I was only trying to hug it! I wanted to hug it hard so I could show the baby bird how much I loves it! I did!"
"And hugging it killed that bird?"
"Well, it may have been moving a bit while I was trying to shove it up my behind, but judging by the way it felt, it was mostly dead already," said Britches.
Joe joined his traveling buddy on the log, putting an arm around one of his shoulders—he was too big for a two-shouldered consolation. It wasn't his fault, Joe told himself. If great books had taught him anything, it was that it's never the fault of the idiot man-child.
For more of this great story, buy Beck Steinman's novel
Mousey Men   |
