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July 11, 2005 |
New York City Courtesy Pfizer The pill in question, which Pfizer really could have made a lot larger for the sake of men with size issues fter weeks of suggesting that patients who had gone blind while using the companyâs best-selling erectile dysfunction drug were pussies, the pharmaceutical giant Pfizer has assumed a new tack this week, as explained in the recent publication of the companyâs informational packet entitled âViagra Doesnât Cause Blindness, Yanking Your Wank for Five Hours Causes Blindness.â
âNot only does Viagra work, sometimes it works all too well,â Pfizer spokesperson Dennis Baylor chuckled knowingly in explanation. âAnd sometimes it takes a little âself controlâ to get that horse back in the corral, you know?â
Baylor continued to speak in baffling euphemisms for several minutes.
âLike if a business meetingâs about to start, or your wif...
fter weeks of suggesting that patients who had gone blind while using the companyâs best-selling erectile dysfunction drug were pussies, the pharmaceutical giant Pfizer has assumed a new tack this week, as explained in the recent publication of the companyâs informational packet entitled âViagra Doesnât Cause Blindness, Yanking Your Wank for Five Hours Causes Blindness.â
âNot only does Viagra work, sometimes it works all too well,â Pfizer spokesperson Dennis Baylor chuckled knowingly in explanation. âAnd sometimes it takes a little âself controlâ to get that horse back in the corral, you know?â
Baylor continued to speak in baffling euphemisms for several minutes.
âLike if a business meetingâs about to start, or your wifeâs pulling up in the driveway and youâve still got your pants off and the Ken dolls and Candyland pieces strewn around the bedroom, well then it might be time to take matters into your own hands, if you know what I mean,â Baylor inferred, possibly speaking from personal experience.
âBut too much of a good thing can be a bad thing,â Baylor continued. âAnd the old wivesâ tales might be right about how being a little too friendly with your member might just lead to a little condition we like to call the blind manâs buff.â
Doctors like to call the condition non-arteritic anterior ischemic optic neuropathy (NAION), or in English, the sudden, permanent loss of vision due to swelling of the optic disc. Pfizer argues for a coincidental association, given that the NAION condition is most common in the sadly overweight and the diabetic, both prime markets for the companyâs dick pills.
Pfizerâs Viagra has been for years the leader in the lucrative Erectile Dysfunction market, known as âEDâ to everyone but guys named Ed. A serious health side-effect like blindness could torpedo the companyâs profits, since being blind is nearly as much of an obstacle to scoring chicks as is not being able to get it up. Add the two together, and youâre in some serious deep shit.
Baylor was evasive when asked to clarify, in simple terms, what exactly the company was blaming for the incidents of blindness.
âWhat, are you daft?â Baylor balked. âChoking the chicken, slamming the ham, paying a visit to Peter O. Johnson, tree-hugging, the friendly fist!â
âUh⌠spanking it, giving a slap-down to the little man, torquing your tuna, performing the holy handshake!â continued Baylor, growing frustrated and less nice by the minute. âYou know, kid, dong massage!â
Unable to get a clear answer from Pfizer, this reporter turned to menâs men on the street for answers.
âYeah, my mom always told me that would happen,â explained disco-ball installer Trent Yardbird. âGoing blind because of, you know, taking your little buddy out for a skipper. Pulling the pud, slapping the salmon. The manâs crank handshake. You know what Iâm talking about.â
This reporterâs further requests for clarification were all met with a withering âMan, you stupid.â
However, this reporter will not rest until he finds the truth, commune readers. At the suggestion of commune editor Red Bagel, Iâve scheduled an interview with my high school health teacher, Mr. Thorpe, as I continue my dig for the truth. Apparently Bagel believes he may have inside information relevant to this investigation. the commune news takes the affliction of blindness very seriously, and out of sympathy for the afflicted we plan on temporarily blinding office dong Ramrod Hurley for entertainment at the communeâs upcoming yearly Summer Picnicalicky. He knows itâs no time to bring this up, but commune teen reporter Boner Cunningham has always thought the word âdoingâ should be a sound effect, like âboing,â rather than such a serious word.
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 February 16, 2004
Mutual of Ohmigod Presents...I say, as long as hiding out from the mob leaves you trapped in a backwards country like Australia, make the best of it. Or at least I'm saying it this week, since it's not yet safe enough for me to return to the states. And make the best of it I will. And I'll make Camembert make the best of it, because making him do things he doesn't want to do is my only source of fun in this primitive aspiring Bayou.
Let it never be said Australia isn't rich in beautiful, untouched natural beauty. Or make sure it's never said around here, since a fat Aussie named Mick will pound you. Since there is so much natural beauty, though, I thought it was high time I lived out my dream of being a rugged outdoorsman. Ever since I was a child, age 41-49, I wanted to be one of those amazing men who made their living off the untamed frontier, like a cowboy, a lumberjack, or perhaps a headhunting cannibal. But since I can't ride a horse, am too short to wield an ax, and get queasy when I taste human flesh, most of those avenues have been closed to me until now. Before, however, I never considered gator-tauntingâit's a top 5 upwardly-mobile field here in Australia.
If you've ever seen one of these gator-taunting shows, or their ancestral 1970s kin, the all-kinds-of-animal-taunting shows like Wild Kingdom, you know they're populated by fearless men who can stare dangerous beasts in the face without pissing their pants, are cunning enough to avoid serious injury, and...
º Last Column: The Deep, Deep South º more columns
I say, as long as hiding out from the mob leaves you trapped in a backwards country like Australia, make the best of it. Or at least I'm saying it this week, since it's not yet safe enough for me to return to the states. And make the best of it I will. And I'll make Camembert make the best of it, because making him do things he doesn't want to do is my only source of fun in this primitive aspiring Bayou.
Let it never be said Australia isn't rich in beautiful, untouched natural beauty. Or make sure it's never said around here, since a fat Aussie named Mick will pound you. Since there is so much natural beauty, though, I thought it was high time I lived out my dream of being a rugged outdoorsman. Ever since I was a child, age 41-49, I wanted to be one of those amazing men who made their living off the untamed frontier, like a cowboy, a lumberjack, or perhaps a headhunting cannibal. But since I can't ride a horse, am too short to wield an ax, and get queasy when I taste human flesh, most of those avenues have been closed to me until now. Before, however, I never considered gator-tauntingâit's a top 5 upwardly-mobile field here in Australia.
If you've ever seen one of these gator-taunting shows, or their ancestral 1970s kin, the all-kinds-of-animal-taunting shows like Wild Kingdom, you know they're populated by fearless men who can stare dangerous beasts in the face without pissing their pants, are cunning enough to avoid serious injury, and know how to bounce back from those injuries they can't avoid. They also have another requirementâa bold partner, capable of narrating with a dashing voice. This is the job I want.
Yes, the dashing narratorâgood people, those guys get laid like eggshell-colored bathroom tile. Not that it's my motivation, but any career admired by the ladies is good enough for Rok Finger. However, I obviously can't narrate to a video of an untaunted alligator, so that's where Camembert comes in. He might be a little slower to get out of the way of their vicious snapping jaws, confined to a wheelchair as he is, but Camembert has more than enough moxie to make up for a lack of agility. And moxie grows back when severed, I hear.
Before you bleeding hearts start emailing me again in defense of Camembert, I should let you know I haven't simply dragged him to the outback and thrown him into the maw of vicious gators without any practice. I brought gators home, and left them in our backyard, where he's sure to stumble across them while doing the laundry. If he succeeds with these "pop quizzes," we should be able to journey to the outback to confront them on their own turf as early as next week, excluding any necessary healing time.
The gators won't be his first experience with wild animals either. For years I have surprised him by letting loose squirrels or hungry raccoons in his bedroom while he sleptâI originally started it to make him more alert to possible prowlers, but it worked out better than I could have imagined. I can't say his reaction time was always first-rate, but apart from the paint-peeling shrieks he composed himself respectably. I think perhaps the squirrels were too small, and the raccoons blended into the background of his bedroom too easy. Alligators ought to be much easier to see, and therefore react to. I tested this theory last week by having Felchyana toss a snake at him, and he reacted quite well, swatting it down and crushing its skull under his chair's wheel, all the while asking her what the fuck she thought she was doing.
Of course, none of this prepares me at all. I've practiced a little bit on my narration, turning down the TV while watching nature programs and doing running commentary on what's going on, and I suppose I need a little more background information on animals so I will be able to say something beyond "Look at this pervert" when the times comes. Not that it isn't a wonderful start to a very promising career. º Last Column: The Deep, Deep Southº more columns
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|  January 5, 2004
You Made Me Love YouHonestly, I don't know why you insist upon blaming this whole thing on me. The restraining order, the profile on the local news, that parody song that was a hit for a while. You act as if this was all my doing. I could perhaps understand some clod from the sticks believing that way, one living far removed from the particulars of our situation, gleaning what tiny shred of insight his brain entertains from television newsmagazines and gossip on the Internet. But not you, you're in a position to know better. One could say you're practically bombarded with the truth on a daily basis. Do I even need to speak the words out loud? You made me love you.
I saw you that morning, six short years ago, beating your kids with that big wooden spoon and I knew in that moment you were the woman for me. We weren't alone in that park, you and I, and frankly I'm more than a little surprised I was the only one to fall in love with you that brisk autumn morn. But never you mind, that's the loss of that morning's other parkgoers and strictly my gain. Because I have to think that the voluminous declarations of my love for you might have made somewhat less of an impact if every Tom, Dick and Harry from here to the North Sea were bombarding your home with telephone calls and paper airplanes inscripted with amorous verse on a daily basis. And as for your protestations, the tender barkings of a heart not ready to be so loved, so completely fulfilled⌠I have to imagine they'd have meant...
º Last Column: Sorry for Skipping the Poor Kids º more columns
Honestly, I don't know why you insist upon blaming this whole thing on me. The restraining order, the profile on the local news, that parody song that was a hit for a while. You act as if this was all my doing. I could perhaps understand some clod from the sticks believing that way, one living far removed from the particulars of our situation, gleaning what tiny shred of insight his brain entertains from television newsmagazines and gossip on the Internet. But not you, you're in a position to know better. One could say you're practically bombarded with the truth on a daily basis. Do I even need to speak the words out loud? You made me love you.
I saw you that morning, six short years ago, beating your kids with that big wooden spoon and I knew in that moment you were the woman for me. We weren't alone in that park, you and I, and frankly I'm more than a little surprised I was the only one to fall in love with you that brisk autumn morn. But never you mind, that's the loss of that morning's other parkgoers and strictly my gain. Because I have to think that the voluminous declarations of my love for you might have made somewhat less of an impact if every Tom, Dick and Harry from here to the North Sea were bombarding your home with telephone calls and paper airplanes inscripted with amorous verse on a daily basis. And as for your protestations, the tender barkings of a heart not ready to be so loved, so completely fulfilled⌠I have to imagine they'd have meant slightly less to me had those sentiments been mailed out in triplicate or, I shudder to think, via a mass email.
No, that morning was made for you, and I. And Jordan, who had just urinated into a bird feeder and was in that moment tasting the heavenly sting of your tough love. And who could forget Darla, who was giggling angelically with glee at her brother's bittersweet lament? Nor Dulcie or Marzipan, the twins, or little Marcel, your beautiful deaf son. But of course this is not forgetting sweet Rocko, he of the impish grin and robustly shit diapers, him I could never forget. And last but not least, little Balfor, the apple of his mother's beautifully enraged eye, gurgling musically as his mother lit into Jordan with an ass-beating fury that could not be tamed by any nearby joggers or the local constable. Yes, that morning was made for you, and I, and your seven children alone.
After I got to know you, through quizzing your neighbors and tracking down your high school classmates, my love for you grew like a berserk vine rooted in radioactive solution, yearning skyward and flattening any obstacle in its path. I came to understand the quality of your love, its potency and the reason why it could not be hoarded by any one man, hence your seven children and their eight different fathers. I loved you from afar, and at times from really afar with a pair of high-powered binoculars, and all the while my love vine grew and grew.
I loved you from the mountaintop and I loved you from the jail cell, biding my time and cursing the security system your ex-husband had installed at the house. But even that love-defying tuna net of a barrier could not quell my thunderously beating heart, nay.
Sometimes I wondered how you could not see the trueness of my aim nor the volcanic throbbing of my virtue and dedication to you. But when we went on Jenny Jones together and you talked about losing your virginity to your high school gym teacher it all became clear to me. You were not ready.
Even a creature of such angelic beauty, one so able to turn on the world with her smile and open a beer bottle with her teeth, can grow weary of drawing sustenance from a poisoned well and close her petals to the sun's balmy glow. This I understand, my love, and I will wait for the day when your flower again blooms, like one of those paper fortune-telling things the kids used to use where you pick a color and a number and then when you open the flap it says you're a gaylord. For if my crime is the ability to see clearly too far into the distant future, to that island of bliss in a sea of not-yetness where we exist together, then slap on the handcuffs and book me in the jail of your love, my dear.
For in this matter, not even the Gods can order my restraint! º Last Column: Sorry for Skipping the Poor Kidsº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The unexamined life is not worth living⌠so show me your tits already.”
-Sol CratesFortune 500 CookieNobody loves you anywhere near as much as your mother, but the bad news is you were adopted and never met her. Your "Most Favored Nathan" status will be revoked this week when a more-favorable Nathan arrives in town. Sorry. Try to start flossing your teeth, crotch and armpits, ASAP. This week's lucky bullets: zingers, greenies, pissmakers, Big Bens, deconstipators, "lead flapjacks," armor-piercing, elephant piercing, Ella Fitzgerald-piercing.
Try again later.Top-Selling commune Paraphernalia| 1. | the commune's Book on Tape: Everyone's favorite verbose classic War & Peace printed in tiny type on the non-sticky side of a roll of Scotch tap | | 2. | The "I Sued the commune for Libel and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug" Mug | | 3. | "Pin the Paternity Suit on Lil Duncan's Babydaddy" Home Game | | 4. | Boris Utzov Guide of English Slang | | 5. | Ivana Folger-Balzac. Please, somebody take Ivana Folger-Balzac. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dick Charleston 3/15/2004 Alistair SchitIn a decidedly real part of the city of London were the common site of workhouses. While I shall not assign a definitive background to our title character, it is possible his mother was in the employ of one of these places. His father might have been a traveling circus clown, which would account for the boy's large and cumbersome feet, but again, I make not up shit when I need not. For whatever account he came to be, Alistair Schit was a street urchin, born free in the manner that sucks.
The first years of his life were spent in an orphanage, all residents marching in single-file lines as if from a Pink Floyd video, piling under-nourishing gruel into their bowls, and tater tots on Fridays. None of the boys was successfully fed in this fashion, always going to bed hungry to...
In a decidedly real part of the city of London were the common site of workhouses. While I shall not assign a definitive background to our title character, it is possible his mother was in the employ of one of these places. His father might have been a traveling circus clown, which would account for the boy's large and cumbersome feet, but again, I make not up shit when I need not. For whatever account he came to be, Alistair Schit was a street urchin, born free in the manner that sucks.
The first years of his life were spent in an orphanage, all residents marching in single-file lines as if from a Pink Floyd video, piling under-nourishing gruel into their bowls, and tater tots on Fridays. None of the boys was successfully fed in this fashion, always going to bed hungry to face the next day in the style of slow dying. It was Alistair who, encouraged by the other boys, brought the attention to the orphanage director, Mr. Hannigan.
"Hey, jackass," inquired Alistair, "what's up with this gruel? You pocketing the money you're supposed to be using to feed us?"
"Why, you scamp!" rattled Mr. Hannigan. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"I ain't saying nothing," professed Alistair. "Just give me moreâmore, bitch! Hustle that fat ass. I'm hungry. We're all hungry, eatin' this K-Mart gruel shit."
Hannigan was outraged, mostly by the K-Mart insult, and Alistair was thrown into a dank and small room not entirely unlike debtors' prison, which I've really been to. Have you ever been to debtors' prison, dear reader? Oh, lord, it is merciless! At night time your fellow cell boarder will try to have sex with your backside, regardless of whether or not you enjoy homosexual intercourse. The guards will walk right past your cell and pretend not to see anything, no matter how you attempt to again the attention with shouting or tearful crying.
None of these things, however, happened to Alistair in his small room, all alone. He might have sang a song, if that's your pleasure, but probably mostly he touched himself in an illicit fashion I will not detail. But at some point, he ungirded the protective casing on a window. Did I mention there was a window? Indeed there was, even if I didn't. For that's how Alistair escaped from the orphanage and took to the streets. And if you think the orphanage personnel went about trying to find Alistair and bring him back, oh, are you wrong, brother. They gave not a shit.
The next few days past in a condensed narrative manner for Alistair. He was cold, tired, hungry, and spent most of them crying. A lot like his days spent at the orphanage, but lacking the savage beatings that at least allowed you to set your watch to correct time. In the days he gathered food from the refuse bin behind the local sperm bank; at night times he slept in a horse pen, where he also snacked. Truly life looked very dim for Alistair, so morbid and downcast many readers might have slashed their own wrists by this time for merciful release.
All those terrible times passed until the day Alistair met Art Danger, a fellow runaway orphan who earned a healthy living picking the pockets of passing strangers and well-to-do men. In truth, Art Danger picked the very pocket of your author, and my main interest in telling this entire story is to find the scamp and get my earnings back. He was 4'6", black hair, unkempt face and clothing, a ridiculous stove-pipe hat, and gold bling-bling around his neck. Any information leading to his arrest and conviction, and the return of my wallet, is subject to a small reward.
For more of this great story, buy Dick Charleston's
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