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American Airlines: 'Christian' Pilot a Goddamned NutFebruary 16, 2004 |
Fort Worth, TX Snapper McGee God sheds his grace on a departing American Airlines flight, unless it's just a simple sunset, but let each draw his own proof of deism.
American Airlines packaged the clarification of the incident with a passive-aggressive apology to any Christians who were stupid enough to mistake the pilot's announcements as endorsing any particular religion. Actually, the apology was about 75% aggressive and only 25% passive, judging by the wording and an elaborate passive-aggressive formula M.I.T. scientists worked out.
Burger, consenting to an interview in her office, as long as we kept the door open, explained it was American Airlines policy to allow pilots to swear in the...
No shit," promised American Airlines spokesperson Lindy Burger. "The pilot in question was out of his ever-loving mind. A fuckhead of galactic proportions. His inventive swearing was unfortunately mistaken for a Christian dogmatic rant."
American Airlines packaged the clarification of the incident with a passive-aggressive apology to any Christians who were stupid enough to mistake the pilot's announcements as endorsing any particular religion. Actually, the apology was about 75% aggressive and only 25% passive, judging by the wording and an elaborate passive-aggressive formula M.I.T. scientists worked out.
Burger, consenting to an interview in her office, as long as we kept the door open, explained it was American Airlines policy to allow pilots to swear in the cockpit. It was also possible she stressed such swearing is conditionally allowed providing they do not broadcast foul language over the speaker system, but this reporter was distracted by a woman saying "cockpit" and forgot to finish writing the quote.
"If it's requested," continued Burger, "American Airlines will release the fucking black box and let everybody get a whiff of Rodger's whack-ass ranting. That motherfucker can rattle them off like he has fucking Tourette's."
Burger also described the policy of hiring pilots who were former alcoholics which sometimes created uncomfortable social situations on the planes. According to Burger, alcoholic pilots with half a buzz on start calling around looking for Alcoholics Anonymous and come across American Airlines in the phonebook first, and management usually feels to sorry for them to turn them away when they show up. Plus, they think it will be funny. Pilots, once freshly on the wagon again, are shaved, showered, given a clean suit, and a job flying national and international flights.
Those who were on hand for the Feb. 7 incident accuse pilot Rodger K. Findiesen of asking the Christians on board the plane to "testify" to the power of Jesus Christ, their lord and savior. Many on the plane made claims to extreme discomfort and feeling singled out by a religious preference, while others felt it was distasteful and inappropriate.
Disagreeing with the assessment, Burger said, "Christian? Rodger? Shit, he can't even say it when he gets half a beer in him. No, more than likely what happened was he knocked back a few at home or made a stop by the drink cart on the way to the front of the plane and cut loose a little bit. Forgot his microphone was on, I bet. We had a similar incident in 1997 with him. Check it out."
Agreeing to check it out, this reporter screened a cassette tape from Burger's desk which she sometimes uses for training sessions or fun at college parties. On the tape, an apparently inebriated Findiesen talks either to the co-pilot, himself, or an invisible friend, including several verses of a song presumably titled "Lick My Salty Balls" set to the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."
"Ack. Fuck the pissin' president. God, am I shit-hammered. Stretched all up on a fuckin' (inaudible)… that's the way. Take a fuckin' parachute and let this sumbitch crash right into a fuckin' mountain. D.B. Cooper woulda done it… (inaudible wailing)… Ah, Shelly, you fuckin' bitch, Jesus hanging on a crucifix, you done me wrong, bitch. I love you. Still love you, baby. Glory, glory, halle-fuckin'-lujah, still love you, baby… Man, I'd love to get a (inaudible) with a cow sometime. That's got to be…"
Stopping the tape, Burger assured that Findiesen would receive treatment for any possible problem with alcohol, and that he had indeed found someone after Shelly. the commune news believes complete in separation of church and plane, and the longer they stay separated when we're on them, the better. Ramon Nootles heartily believes in the separation of young schoolgirls and their clothes, but enough about his court troubles.
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Dow drops low enough to stare up Mickey Rooney's ass, says stock dude
Kerry a threat to gun-owners; gun-owners a threat to everybody else
Affleck pregnant
Sudan peace plan calls for Led Zeppelin song about Darfur
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Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. “Blond Highlights the Devil’s Work,” Says Iran, Straight Men Dow Reaches 13,000, Tao Reaches ∞ |
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 July 21, 2003
Volume 47Dear commune:
Who pooped on the commune’s parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last!
Sincerely,
Bobby Turner
The sidewalk outside the commune offices
Dear Bobby:
Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Can’t you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Can’t you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a week’s pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So you’ve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesn’t anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!
Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the...
º Last Column: Volume 46
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Dear commune: Who pooped on the commune’s parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last! Sincerely, Bobby Turner
The sidewalk outside the commune offices
Dear Bobby:
Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Can’t you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Can’t you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a week’s pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So you’ve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesn’t anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!
Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the lite plan and only counts up to five: you’ve already maxed us out for the month. You’re milking a dry tit, kid, and you won’t have any better luck with our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine either, they’ve been drinking nothing but sealed bottled water ever since Omar Bricks spiked the building’s water supply with mescaline last Halloween.
You just don’t get it, do you kid? Apparently all the potted plants (thanks, Crochet!) Ted Ted has been dropping at you from our windows like some third-rate Atari game have failed to crack your thick skull in more ways than one. All right kid, we get the message. You want to play with the big boys? This means war.
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any unintended casualties in our ongoing holy war with lemonade vendor Bobby Turner. If you don’t want a metal plate holding your skull together, stay off the sidewalk.º Last Column: Volume 46º more columns
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|  May 17, 2004
Midgets Aren't All They're Cracked Up to BeFrom the first day I pulled Nevil out of my duffel bag and locked him in the trophy case in my living room, I thought that I was pretty damn clever for acquiring a midget. I pictured all kinds of everyday tasks that he could perform for me; it would be like having my own butler, only puntable and hilarious. Who wouldn't want a comically undersized sidekick to make their bed, brush their teeth, or stand in for them as a real life stunt double in situations they personally didn't want to be associated with, like work, paying taxes, going to jail, or being gang fucked in a dark alley by a group of Hell's Angels hopped up on PCP?
Fate, it seems, has a cruel way of twisting your dreams into reality.
It seems like I cater to that fucking midget more then he ever waits on me. For the longest time I couldn't even take him on a walk through a decent neighborhood without him darting off and humping somebody's front yard gnomes. I can't count the number of times we would've both been arrested if it weren't for my quick thinking, drop-kicking Nevil into the hedges and soaking up the accolades from homeowners who thought I'd just saved their landscaping from some kind of demented, randy troll.
Eventually I had to solve this problem by stealing one of those remote control shock collars. It didn't seem to be doing the trick at first, if anything the shocks just got Nevil excited, but after I replaced that pussy-assed 9V battery with a Sears DieHard...
º Last Column: This is Mickey Hanes!
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From the first day I pulled Nevil out of my duffel bag and locked him in the trophy case in my living room, I thought that I was pretty damn clever for acquiring a midget. I pictured all kinds of everyday tasks that he could perform for me; it would be like having my own butler, only puntable and hilarious. Who wouldn't want a comically undersized sidekick to make their bed, brush their teeth, or stand in for them as a real life stunt double in situations they personally didn't want to be associated with, like work, paying taxes, going to jail, or being gang fucked in a dark alley by a group of Hell's Angels hopped up on PCP? Fate, it seems, has a cruel way of twisting your dreams into reality. It seems like I cater to that fucking midget more then he ever waits on me. For the longest time I couldn't even take him on a walk through a decent neighborhood without him darting off and humping somebody's front yard gnomes. I can't count the number of times we would've both been arrested if it weren't for my quick thinking, drop-kicking Nevil into the hedges and soaking up the accolades from homeowners who thought I'd just saved their landscaping from some kind of demented, randy troll. Eventually I had to solve this problem by stealing one of those remote control shock collars. It didn't seem to be doing the trick at first, if anything the shocks just got Nevil excited, but after I replaced that pussy-assed 9V battery with a Sears DieHard he started singing a different tune. I'm not sure what, it sounded like "Greensleeves" but it's hard to scream in tune when you're on fire. The shock from that car battery is so strong it'll blow a midget clean across the street, and he'll shit his pants in mid-air or your money back. That little fucker even stopped biting, hissing and spitting. I'm telling you, a shock collar is the gift that keeps on giving. Remember that come Christmastime, especially if anyone on your list owns a midget or an ornery dwarf. In the end, I guess my biggest midget-owning gripe is still maintenance. I had a big problem with him drinking out of the toilet in my apartment, which sounds funny until you get up in the middle of the night to take a crap and realize you've just shit up the back of a midget's jammies. Trust me, that makes leaving the toilet seat up seem like no big deal. So after I got the collar, I decided to hide in the bathroom closet and wait until Nevil got his tongue in the water before I hit the button. Holy shit! Now he won't even go near the fuckin' bathroom. So what does he do? He shits in the bottom drawer of my fridge. I should have gotten a hamster. The vet says that Nevil doesn't have any hair anymore due to the hundreds of thousands of volts that I run through him on a daily basis, and that I should find other ways to discipline my midget. Yadda yadda yadda. But I'm nothing if not a humanitarian, so for a week I took the damned collar off. Every time he did something that I didn't like, picking at the paint on the walls, trying on my clothes, trying to escape, or pissing in my closet, I would beat him shitty with a pick-ax handle instead. Trust me, it was good exercise, but nowhere near as convenient. That and my neighbors were always complaining about the noise and asking if they could borrow my croquet set. Communication is a big problem too. It would be so much easier if Nevil could talk. All he ever does is grunt and growl. Why can't midgets ever talk? You'd think they'd be great at it, since they constantly need help when they can't reach things. I'd expect a midget kid to be able to say "Hey bitch, hand me that sammich!" by the time they're two. Of course, maybe at one time he could talk. But when I found him, in order to subdue the little bastard enough to get him into my bag I had to stab Nevil in the throat with a piece of splintered wood, then tape the wound shut with duct tape so he wouldn't die. I wasn't worried about it at the time, since I already knew that midgets can't feel pain. So don't say I never learned anything in school. But I think that might have had something to do with his lack of conversation skills. So a word to the wise, for those of you who are thinking about getting a midget: Think twice, because it will be more of you taking care of them, and not the other way around. º Last Column: This is Mickey Hanes!º more columns
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Milestones1969: Rok Finger is deeply offended by the sights at Woodstock, which has little if anything to do with his favorite Peanuts character.Now HiringTrombone Player. Follow Bludney Pudd around office playing hilarious "wahnt-WAHNT" everytime he does something pathetic. Overtime guaranteed.Women Other Than Christina Ricci We Want Chained to Our Radiator| 1. | Original Wednesday Addams, Lisa Loring | | 2. | Landlady—You spend the night there and tell me it's heating just fine | | 3. | Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (still count as one) | | 4. | Diana Rigg, circa 1968; or now, what the hell | | 5. | Anybody but that hippie chick protesting for radiator rights I got now | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/16/2002 Howdy Doody, America.
I'm sorry folks. That was just a pathetic attempt to sound upbeat. I should give you people more credit than that. We all know where we find ourselves, plum in the middle of the doggy-style days of autumn, a movie wasteland so barren that even the dead horses look bored. And that's no small challenge. Luckily for me, the less time people spend in theaters, the more time they spend writing letters to Ask Roland, except for the select few primates who actually try and write to me from inside the theater, so I end up with illegible butter-stained napkin letters crumpled in my mail box, covered in ants and other sundry vermin. I get less of those now, which is the one thing I like about the Fall. So let's delay no further and get to padding this...
Howdy Doody, America.
I'm sorry folks. That was just a pathetic attempt to sound upbeat. I should give you people more credit than that. We all know where we find ourselves, plum in the middle of the doggy-style days of autumn, a movie wasteland so barren that even the dead horses look bored. And that's no small challenge. Luckily for me, the less time people spend in theaters, the more time they spend writing letters to Ask Roland, except for the select few primates who actually try and write to me from inside the theater, so I end up with illegible butter-stained napkin letters crumpled in my mail box, covered in ants and other sundry vermin. I get less of those now, which is the one thing I like about the Fall. So let's delay no further and get to padding this column out like a Kate Moss swimsuit, shall we?
Q. Hey Roland, what's it hangin? Listen, I don't really have a movie question, but I was wondering if you could hook me up with that Violet Tiara chick who writes for the commune. She's hot! And smart! Does she dig dudes in the military? Cuz I could enlist, I'm pretty sure. Unless they've still got that rule about having to be able to touch your toes. Hey, that's my other question: Do they still have that rule? Thanks in advance Roland, we'll name our first kid after you.
Elmer DeBarge, Spankle, MO
A.Thanks for the letter Elmer, and it was smart to include a picture of yourself so I have something to show to the police. Though they are going to wonder why it has half of a People magazine What's Hot/Who's Not column printed on the back of it, and what you're doing with Heath Ledger's girlfriend. As for Ms. Tiara, I'm sorry to say she's too young for you, however old you are. Her parents are also super quick with a restraining order, which is silly since she's mostly a tease anyway. Or that's what I hear, from… people.
Q. Rooollaaaaand! Wasaaaaaaaap! Man, is that ever going to get old? I don't know, but I hope not. I love that joke. Love it! Anyway man, I got a question for you here. Uh… shit. Nope, I guess not. I had one when I started this but I totally spaced it when I was doing that "Wasaaaaaaap!" thing. Sorry dude, I'll get back to you.
Rodney Poster, Belmonte, CA
A. Believe it or not, these were the two best letters I received all week. You should have seen some of the stupid ones. Anyway, thanks for your letter, Rodney. Thanks a lot. Thanks for single-handedly making this the worst installment of Ask Roland ever. Good God, without your help I might have overestimated the future of humanity. Thankfully I am no longer in that danger, and I now realize that we're all screwed. Thanks again.
Alright, that's the movie bell a-ringin':
In Theaters
The Bang Your Sisters
Oh man, what a funny idea for a movie! No, wait, that's Animal House. What's this boiled old hobo boot doing up on my screen? The only way you're going to laugh during this tale of the most unfortunately named band in the history of rock is if you've just come straight from an actually funny movie and are still laughing when this one starts. Actually, to be honest, the movie had one big laugh in it. It came when this guy came back from the concession stand with his hands full of a giant soda and a big bag of popcorn, and when he went to sit down in the dark he kind of half sat on the arm of his seat, which caused him to panic and flail his arms up, dumping the whole bag of popcorn right on his head. Classic. Though I suspect that probably could have happened during any movie and therefore I wouldn't place too much credit for that laugh on the film itself.
Barbieshop
It's a great idea, I'll give them that. Line up a smooch on the ass for whoever dreamed this one up: a quartet of hard-nosed bone thugs inherit a doll store when their grandfather dies, and now they have to trade in their trash-talking street ways and spend their days explaining the difference between Malibu Barbie and Ventura County Barbie to spoiled little six year-old white girls from Riverside. Stick Chris Rock and Chris Tucker in the actor holes and you'd have 'em rolling in the isles, probably from laughing. Hell, stick Chris Katan and Chris Farley in a tanning booth for a few days and it could still work. So who do they get to star in this turkey? Ice Cube, Ice-T and Urkel. Good job, guys. Way to shoot the comedy goose in the head.
Igby Goes Down
Everybody's favorite Australian cartoon iguana is here to teach kids about sex and sexuality, the Aussie way! Though the animation is crude, it still gets the point across, and these guys know how to draw some sexy kangaroos. Or, as the Aussies call them, Wildebeests. While the film may be too disturbing for older viewers, kids will find it a delightful romp, in both meanings of that double-Nintendo. Delightfully fake Australian accents are provided by voice-over legends Susan Saranadan, Bill Pullman, and that guy who barfs when he eats.
Stealing Harvard
Heist movies don't have any sense of ambition these days. Everybody's got some master plan to steal a million kruktillion dollars so they can live out their golden years in some HEPA-filtered paradise where nobody speaks English. Bo-ring. When's the last time anybody ever tried to steal something really valuable, like Disneyland? Now that's a caper worth plotting for 45 minutes. How in the world would they pull that off? I'm hooked. I want to know, you know? Sign me up for a front-row seat and a box of Nards. Sadly, this heist flick doesn't quite get it right, but it's a novel effort. I'm not sure why somebody would get all hot and bothered about stealing a crusty old East Coast University, so there were some believability issues there. Maybe you could make a mint printing off phony diplomas and selling them on the Internet. I'm pretty sure that must have been what they were thinking. But I shouldn't have to work so hard to figure it out, that's the movie's job.
Trapped
Picture the scene. You find yourself stuck in some drafty country cottage with no telephone and no way out. You think you're alone, but then you turn and see… Courtney Love! Yikes! You spin around in the other direction, and it's… Charlize "Don't Call Me Ashley Judd" Theron! Shit! Could it get any worse? Yes, it could! Kevin Bacon's in the crapper! And he's wearing those awful jogging shorts that reveal far too much and turn you off of Bacon Bits for the rest of your life. Who's trapped with them? Here comes the twist: it's the audience. Yep, two hours with these undesirables may scar you for life, but they say it's really cathartic when you actually get to leave the theater.
And that's a wrap, folks. All right, go on, get out. Uncle Roland wants to be alone in the dark room for a while. Don't ring for dinner, I'm just going to be in the music room, playing one note on the piano over and over again. Now all I need is to find a music room somewhere.    |
