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 January 26, 2004 |
General Motors’ Mars Rover SUV, pictured here with the popular “Johnny Five” Sportspak option
In an unrelated story, NASA technicians continue to twiddle knobs and fart around in an effort to repair their ailing Mars Rover, stranded on the barren Martian surface nearly 100 million miles from Earth. As of Friday, technicians were receiving only random blips of static and the sickening sound of grinding metal from the Rover’s powerful radio antenna.
“It’s just like m...
eneral Motors Corp. announced today they would be recalling all production models of their popular Mars Rover sport-utility vehicle, due to unspecified problems with the vehicle’s onboard computer system. According to Robert Jungels, a spokesperson for the world’s #1 automaker, “God help the poor son of a bitch who’s counting on one of those things on a cold winter’s day.”
In an unrelated story, NASA technicians continue to twiddle knobs and fart around in an effort to repair their ailing Mars Rover, stranded on the barren Martian surface nearly 100 million miles from Earth. As of Friday, technicians were receiving only random blips of static and the sickening sound of grinding metal from the Rover’s powerful radio antenna.
“It’s just like my Lumina,” mused mission controller Mark Banks. “Looks like beautiful. Drives like shit.”
“As the owner’s manual states clearly in twelve point Helvetica, it is not recommended that the Rover be driven outside of the country,” explained GM’s Jungels when told about NASA’s car trouble. “Foreign gasoline is rarely up to US standards, and you never know what kind of weird-assed Chink nail you’re going to kick up from the road.”
Asked whether the red planet would fall under his classification of “outside of the country,” Jungels was emphatic. “Shit yeah.”
The scene at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratories in Pasadena, CA was a desperate one over the weekend, with a crowd of engineers hunched over the Rover’s remote display terminal, offering a cacophony of suggestions. “Turn it over… no, jiggle the… you’re flooding it!”
According to NASA officials, the Rover failed soon after rolling of its landing platform on the Martian surface, and the “check engine” light has been on since last Tuesday.
“My dad was right, we never should have bought American,” lamented NASA engineer Richard Bennett, echoing a popular sentiment at mission control. Due to budgetary cutbacks, NASA’s original plan for a high tech NASA-only Rover designed by Honda and Toshiba had to be scaled back in favor of a more modest proposal before launch. The Detroit automaker’s low APR financing was said to be a major deciding factor for cash-strapped NASA.
“The funny thing is, the radio still works fine,” chuckled a bemused Bennett. “Clear as a bell. We’ve been listening to K-BIG all weekend, their whole doo-wop countdown. Except when Mickels is in charge, he likes to channel surf and we usually get stuck listening to some bullshit AC-DC song. If there is any intelligent life on Mars, they’re going to think we’ve got really shitty taste in music.”
Though it may be of cold comfort given the mission’s $850 million price tag, GM customer service representatives have assured NASA that the offending control module will be replaced free of charge, as soon as NASA can bring the Rover in to any of the over 7,500 authorized GM dealers in the United States and Canada. the commune news has owned several recalled GM cars over the years, and we can assure you none were recalled fondly. Ramon Nootles, however, is perfectly happy with his Monte Carlo, because when it’s not running it’s just that much easier to get a girl into the back seat.
 |  Lost Leaves Plotlines Half-Solved in Honor of Shooting Victims
Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home
 OH MY GOD SNOW
No rule against dog running in Kentucky Derby
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Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
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 March 18, 2002
The Hat ThiefThere once was a bat who lived in a hat in a crevice overlooking the sea. How'd the hat get there? Why should you care? I should care, it belonged to me. I think the bat stole it, down the street he rolled it, while I was asleep in my bed. And when I awoke, my ears fumed with smoke, for I had nothing to cover my head.
And I rightly have proof, from the marks on my roof, from where the bat climbed down my chimney. Though I'm sure, quite emotive, he'd claim that his motive was eating a cricket named Jimney. Believe him? I wouldn't. Forgive him? I couldn't. Not for an excuse so old. My sympathies he's nursing! That bat that I'm cursing, whenever I find my ears cold.
I'm sure that he's cozy, and his cheeks they are rosy, up there in my hat in that cliff. And no rocks that I'm throwing or the cold wind that's blowing will raise him to grant me a tiff. Does he want me to go, leave him be? I don't know! Though he seems quite adept at ignoring. There are times when I'd swear that he just wasn't there, were it not for the sounds of him snoring.
I know what you'd plead: leave him be, he's in need! A new hat you can surely find. But what eats at parts of me is the bat's larceny: if he'd asked me first I wouldn't mind. The hat fit too loose and it really was no use, not without the matching green slippers. But that's just the part that yanks at my heart: a seal stole them for his...
º Last Column: The Golden Potion
º more columns
There once was a bat who lived in a hat in a crevice overlooking the sea. How'd the hat get there? Why should you care? I should care, it belonged to me. I think the bat stole it, down the street he rolled it, while I was asleep in my bed. And when I awoke, my ears fumed with smoke, for I had nothing to cover my head.
And I rightly have proof, from the marks on my roof, from where the bat climbed down my chimney. Though I'm sure, quite emotive, he'd claim that his motive was eating a cricket named Jimney. Believe him? I wouldn't. Forgive him? I couldn't. Not for an excuse so old. My sympathies he's nursing! That bat that I'm cursing, whenever I find my ears cold.
I'm sure that he's cozy, and his cheeks they are rosy, up there in my hat in that cliff. And no rocks that I'm throwing or the cold wind that's blowing will raise him to grant me a tiff. Does he want me to go, leave him be? I don't know! Though he seems quite adept at ignoring. There are times when I'd swear that he just wasn't there, were it not for the sounds of him snoring.
I know what you'd plead: leave him be, he's in need! A new hat you can surely find. But what eats at parts of me is the bat's larceny: if he'd asked me first I wouldn't mind. The hat fit too loose and it really was no use, not without the matching green slippers. But that's just the part that yanks at my heart: a seal stole them for his flippers. º Last Column: The Golden Potionº more columns
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|  January 5, 2004
HospitalityEditor's Note: Sampson L. Hartwig may be gone and presumed dead, his stuff long since passed around to the staff members who have gone through his desk, but the prolific Hartwig had oodles and oodles of remembrances we were never desperate enough to run. Until now. Enjoy!
I remember my first trip to the hospital. It was the birth of my sister, Stephanie, and I was only a little tyke. Me and my brother Goose were both five. Actually, Goose was three years older than me, but always wanted everything I had, so my dad made us both five. Come to think of it, Goose never did get those years back.
The hospital was a big, scary place for a little kid. Everything was white and sterile, people moved around gigantic electric equipment since back then everything was tubes and hand-cranks—thermometers took up whole rooms. And then there were the doctors, big old scary guys walking around with masks on their faces like bank robbers. As a kid I thought it was so nobody knew, even the nurses, who left the sponge in the guy after they sewed him up. Kind of like when they shoot a guy, there's four riflemen with one bullets. Though I guess you could bring your own bullets from home to make sure, no one's stopping you.
All I knew was Mom came in with a bellyache and a big fat stomach. I thought it was because Dad punched her there all the time, but he said he just did that so the baby would come out with good reflexes. You may scoff now, with your...
º Last Column: Good-Bye
º more columns
Editor's Note: Sampson L. Hartwig may be gone and presumed dead, his stuff long since passed around to the staff members who have gone through his desk, but the prolific Hartwig had oodles and oodles of remembrances we were never desperate enough to run. Until now. Enjoy!
I remember my first trip to the hospital. It was the birth of my sister, Stephanie, and I was only a little tyke. Me and my brother Goose were both five. Actually, Goose was three years older than me, but always wanted everything I had, so my dad made us both five. Come to think of it, Goose never did get those years back.
The hospital was a big, scary place for a little kid. Everything was white and sterile, people moved around gigantic electric equipment since back then everything was tubes and hand-cranks—thermometers took up whole rooms. And then there were the doctors, big old scary guys walking around with masks on their faces like bank robbers. As a kid I thought it was so nobody knew, even the nurses, who left the sponge in the guy after they sewed him up. Kind of like when they shoot a guy, there's four riflemen with one bullets. Though I guess you could bring your own bullets from home to make sure, no one's stopping you.
All I knew was Mom came in with a bellyache and a big fat stomach. I thought it was because Dad punched her there all the time, but he said he just did that so the baby would come out with good reflexes. You may scoff now, with your modern sensibilities, but back then it was common, the government even told you to do it. I remember a big poster of Teddy Roosevelt in our school telling us to "Punch one for the hun!" Man, that slogan rhymed.
The doctor tried to tell me exactly what was happening. Mom and Dad had decided to have a baby together, and they laid down in a bed, and nine months later came along a baby, which would be a little boy or girl. He said "the stork" was just a myth, and that baby's come out because of complicated biology.
Well, obviously, Goose and I beat the hell out of him, held him down, and threatened to cut out his tongue with a broken bottle if he started telling people such lies. Our Mom and Dad never laid down in a bed together in their lives. That was something foreigners did maybe, but not Mom and Dad.
Come to think of it, I never did really figure out how Mom got the baby out. You'd think I'd have picked that up over the years by now. I always just assumed it ripped its way out of the front of her stomach and that's why Mom never wore a two-piece bathing suit. º Last Column: Good-Byeº more columns
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Milestones1854: Alfred, Lord TennysonĂs ìCharge of the Light BrigadeĂ® is published, giving Rok Finger a polished piece of poetry to mangle when heĂs drunk.Now HiringTreasury Secretary. Government position, includes benefits, pension, all federal holidays off. Responsibilities include advising on economic policies, having economic policies refused, and taking blame for failed economic policies. Ability to explain massive tax cuts in time of high military spending and unemployment a plus.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Vito Wants His Money Back Yesterday | | 2. | Trust: 10 Lies to Get It | | 3. | Donate Money to Help Us Burn Sugar Ray's Guitar | | 4. | Underwear Your Dog Can Wear | | 5. | Uncle Macho's Harbor-Fresh Ice | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/12/2005 Welcome back to being alive, America! Whatever you do when you’re not reading Entertainment Police, I think we can all agree it’s not quite living. Take a moment to re-adjust to the feeling of blood pumping through your veins and air whistling through the squeezebox in your chest while we warm up to take a potshot at this week’s new releases from the Beast That Ate Hollywood. Feeling better? Then strap on your shit bib and let’s begin.
In Theaters Now:
The Constant Gardener
Everyone could always count on Ava Gardener, and you can count on this biopic to lull you to sleep like a metronome and a glass full of Quaaludes. The Big Sleep? Oh come on, there’s nothing so bad about The Big Sleep. You really want to see the rest of this movie?...
Welcome back to being alive, America! Whatever you do when you’re not reading Entertainment Police, I think we can all agree it’s not quite living. Take a moment to re-adjust to the feeling of blood pumping through your veins and air whistling through the squeezebox in your chest while we warm up to take a potshot at this week’s new releases from the Beast That Ate Hollywood. Feeling better? Then strap on your shit bib and let’s begin.
In Theaters Now:
The Constant Gardener
Everyone could always count on Ava Gardener, and you can count on this biopic to lull you to sleep like a metronome and a glass full of Quaaludes. The Big Sleep? Oh come on, there’s nothing so bad about The Big Sleep. You really want to see the rest of this movie? I didn’t think so. Harps and white robes third door on your left.
The Exorcism of Axl Rose
Finally somebody asked the question of what the hell ever happened to Axl Rose and what could have been? What kind of music could the world have known if Rose’s decadence and megalomania had been allowed to grow unchecked, rather than being cut down in his 20-minute-long "November Rain" video prime. He was already playing the piano on MTV with Elton John, what could have come next? The accordion? The harp? A harp on top of a piano being played by Elton John, while the 90-minute long version of Guns N’ Roses’ latest video was projected on a screen in the background and doves were flying around in strobe lights everywhere? We’ll never know, because the jealous fates decided enough was enough and possessed our poet of hairspray metal with some kind of demonic spirit that required Tom Wilkinson’s intervention. Isn’t that always the way?
Thumbsucker
Leave it to some low-rent indie slob to take the low road, naming his latest $14 "You gave my student film a thumbs-down" revenge flick after the hip cognoscenti’s rude nickname for fellow movie critic Roger Ebert. Sure, REbert (as I’ve always called him, I don’t know, it just feels right) and I haven’t always seen eye to eye when it comes to the movies we review, but that’s what America is all about: the other guy’s right to be wrong. And fat. Sure, REbert has lost some serious weight lately, as you may have noticed from his most recent spread in Playgirl. But he was still way out of line to misspell my name in that online chat back in 1998. Nevermind what he said about my reviews. Seriously, how can a movie review make the baby Jesus cry? What a dick. I take it back, Thumbsucker is awesome. See it with a friend.
The Transplanter 2
That thick-necked English guy from every clip of soccer riot footage ever is back as an invincible action hero in a sequel that never had a first film, but seemed so sequel-like anyway they decided to give it a number. Now he’s doing what action heroes do best, helping people move across the country in a big fancy bad-ass moving truck that shoots sidewinder missiles, which the killjoys might find somewhat excessive. But if you’ve ever tried to park a moving truck on a city street, you know how necessary sidewinder missiles really are. I’ll give the movie three stars, because it doesn’t have any stars in it as-is and it could really use some. I’m in a generous mood, so I’ll say Hillary Duff, the guy from Limp Bizkit and Jeff Goldblum. There you go, have fun movie.
Whew, America! That was a workout. I think my pulse got up there for a second. What’s normal? Mine was definitely normal plus five during that last review. Give or take a normal margin of error, I didn’t have the appropriate medical equipment handy to test accurately. But I was feeling the burn. Until next time, America, I hope you all get burned.   |
