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Paparazzi Buried With Anna Nicole SmithMarch 5, 2007 |
Nassau, Bahamas Junior Bacon A slightly more lively Anna Nicole Smith in the days before her demise, followed by her disciples and their primitive image-capturing devices.
"I’ve got a feeling this story is only going to get bigger after this," said photographer Ray Snable, still clicking away on his camera with fresh photos of the body as pallbearers nailed a large ...
merica’s trailer park inhabitants mourned between talk shows and soap operas Saturday as the world’s public-access Marilyn Monroe was buried in the Bahamas. The modest celebrity and super-tabloid magnet was finally laid to rest after a month of court battles and life-draining media coverage following her February 8 death from over-exposure. Laid next to her son following his September 2006 death from a drug overdose, Smith’s burial was most notable for a judge’s order that allowed several members of the tabloid media and freelance photographers to be interred with the body.
"I’ve got a feeling this story is only going to get bigger after this," said photographer Ray Snable, still clicking away on his camera with fresh photos of the body as pallbearers nailed a large lid on the 125-man coffin containing the deceased starlet and her new entourage.
"The unusual burial situation came about from an order handed down by vaudeville’s own Judge Larry Seidlin when he released the Smith body and its bosom baggage for a burial in the sunny Bahamas. Judge Seidlin decreed that "America has a vested interest in following the continuing drama of the Anna Nicole Smith story."
"Now more than ever," said Broadway Seidlin, "as the country faces one tumor of dull-ass presidential election coverage and weak competition on American Idol, the people want and need the security of a sassy, beautiful corpse of no particular claim to fame and her everyday trials. Reruns are simply not enough."
The court ruling allowed 124 members of the medias, including freelance photographers, to join the Smith remains in their underground adventure with a specified promise of keeping the public up to date on how the story continued to unfold. Will Smith learn to cope with the loss of her son? Will she tell the real identity of her baby’s father? Will she continue to live the sedentary lifestyle all of America witnessed on her too-short-lived The Anna Nicole Show? Judge Seidlin promised just because the body ceased to breathe it doesn’t mean Americans will stop caring about the drama.
After burial of the notably large coffin, the muffled screams of the more timid members of the burial coverage crew were drowned out by the sobbing of people who felt a bizarre kinship with the former Playboy playmate and grave-robbing skeleton widow, as well as the appropriately vacant song stylings of country music superstar Joe Nichols. Slash, of the band Guns ’N’ Roses, was also in attendance, because what else could he have been expected to be doing.
Despite objections from some human rights advocates, Entertainment Tonight segment producer Lynn Hoddbody argued those reporters and photographers buried alive with the corpse of the peroxide blonde model were the lucky ones.
"This is probably the single most important media event of the century, and I can say without fear of contradiction Anna Nicole Smith will be the most tragic figure in history," Hoddbody said. "Who wouldn’t gladly sacrifice themselves to be there when O.J. Simpson slashed the shit out of his wife and that guy, to witness that world-shaking event in progress and have a slim chance of telling us just what happened? In this case, we can all truly say we should envy the dead."
Which begs the question—first O.J., now Anna Nicole: Is there a curse on all the stars of The Naked Gun 33 1/3: The Final Insult? Will George Kennedy survive? the commune news would have bet dollars to donuts Carmen Electra’s wild Dennis Rodman-marrying ways would have laid her low long before Anna Nicole Smith. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown has been cashing in all his ghost junk bonds for a phantom fortune, hoping to woo the newly dead Anna Nicole spirit away from that nutso Howard Hughes.
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Homeland Defense nominee withdraws name; no longer eligible for free ham
Iraqi extremists boast killing 15 policemen, all ten-foot tall ninjas
 Pain in the Ass Hawking Demands Handicapped- Accessible Space Shuttle  Muslims Protest Violent Cartoons by Fucking Shit Up |
Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 May 26, 2003
Volume 43Dear commune:
As the old parable goes, "God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt." If truer words were ever spoken, I don’t know them. They probably weren’t spoken to me.
What I’m getting at is, my girlfriend is an atheist. As you can imagine, if she doesn’t believe in God she has absolutely no confidence in the harmless practice of eating dirt, it could be arsenic or anything. Being an atheist must make the world a very scary, lawless sort of place.
So what do you say? Any tips on how I can get the woman to let me keep eating dirt?
Sincerely,
Kivin Treedink
Ludlow, MT
Dear Ronald:
We are shocked into silence and delighted by your letter, each of us for various reasons. Some latched onto the thoughtful questions on the nature of the universe and the existence of God. Others were intrigued by your use of pizza sauce to dot the i’s and lowercase j’s. It was pizza sauce, wasn’t it? We have a pool going now.
Overall, most of us were heartened by your questions because if a knob of galactic proportions such as yourself can find a girlfriend, there is still hope for those of us still single. Pass on to her our suggestion that, no matter what her shortcomings, she can clearly do much, much better. Keep reading the commune!
the...
º Last Column: Volume 42
º more columns
Dear commune: As the old parable goes, "God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt." If truer words were ever spoken, I don’t know them. They probably weren’t spoken to me. What I’m getting at is, my girlfriend is an atheist. As you can imagine, if she doesn’t believe in God she has absolutely no confidence in the harmless practice of eating dirt, it could be arsenic or anything. Being an atheist must make the world a very scary, lawless sort of place. So what do you say? Any tips on how I can get the woman to let me keep eating dirt? Sincerely, Kivin Treedink
Ludlow, MTDear Ronald:
We are shocked into silence and delighted by your letter, each of us for various reasons. Some latched onto the thoughtful questions on the nature of the universe and the existence of God. Others were intrigued by your use of pizza sauce to dot the i’s and lowercase j’s. It was pizza sauce, wasn’t it? We have a pool going now.
Overall, most of us were heartened by your questions because if a knob of galactic proportions such as yourself can find a girlfriend, there is still hope for those of us still single. Pass on to her our suggestion that, no matter what her shortcomings, she can clearly do much, much better. Keep reading the commune!
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the publication of letters than offend you or us. Letters are picked randomly by a rat who comes out of the wall and eats bag upon bag of reader mail—whatever’s left is what we run. Blame the rats, as the saying goes.º Last Column: Volume 42º more columns
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|  July 22, 2002
Back in My Day, Business Wasn't For CrybabiesThese days, it seems like you can't rifle through a newspaper looking for the comics or pretend to read a magazine on the subway while staring down a young lady's blouse without hearing something about the latest business scandal. If somebody isn't having a rubber-gloved finger probed up their asshole for shredding confidential documents, then they're facing the Spanish Inquisition for making a personal fortune by overvaluing their company's stock at the expense of the bottom line. And through it all, I've only got one question on my mind: since when did the entire business world turn into a bunch of crybabies?
Back in my day, you didn't hear people pissing and moaning about insider information or cooking the books and it's not fair, boo-hoo. Back then we only had one rule in business: no kicking in the nuts. And that one was sometimes optional.
Those were the glory days of bold men doing what it took to get head, not bald men doing what it took to get ahead. We had priorities, and big cars. Anybody who wanted to ask too many questions didn't get to ride in the big cars, they could schlep it back to the Hilton in their miserable little Yugos if they wanted to play around with any of that Woodward and Bernstein bullshit.
Heady times, indeed. And the corporate takeovers were the best of the best. I remember I was working for Schleinhauser Nut & Bolt Co. when they bought out Winslow Fasteners. Good god was that sweet! The spoils! We took...
º Last Column: I Know You Love Me
º more columns
These days, it seems like you can't rifle through a newspaper looking for the comics or pretend to read a magazine on the subway while staring down a young lady's blouse without hearing something about the latest business scandal. If somebody isn't having a rubber-gloved finger probed up their asshole for shredding confidential documents, then they're facing the Spanish Inquisition for making a personal fortune by overvaluing their company's stock at the expense of the bottom line. And through it all, I've only got one question on my mind: since when did the entire business world turn into a bunch of crybabies?
Back in my day, you didn't hear people pissing and moaning about insider information or cooking the books and it's not fair, boo-hoo. Back then we only had one rule in business: no kicking in the nuts. And that one was sometimes optional.
Those were the glory days of bold men doing what it took to get head, not bald men doing what it took to get ahead. We had priorities, and big cars. Anybody who wanted to ask too many questions didn't get to ride in the big cars, they could schlep it back to the Hilton in their miserable little Yugos if they wanted to play around with any of that Woodward and Bernstein bullshit.
Heady times, indeed. And the corporate takeovers were the best of the best. I remember I was working for Schleinhauser Nut & Bolt Co. when they bought out Winslow Fasteners. Good god was that sweet! The spoils! We took many of their top executives as man-slaves and the most comely of their female execs and secretaries as our concubines. And I don't recall anyone complaining then, except of course for the man-slaves and concubines.
Forget about trying to live that large these days, you'd be lucky to pull off a subsidized loan to buy company stock in the current "goody two-shoes" national climate. The law of the land used to be that if you didn't have balls big enough to hang with the big boys, then you could cart your shriveled little nuggets on over to the unemployment line, bub. Get in line behind all of the other suckers who take a court order not to shred documents seriously. Hell, in my day I shredded stacks of court orders not to shred documents, that's just the way things worked. It was always better not to leave a paper trail, especially not concerning the sticky finer points of business like profits and expenses and other such voodoo.
Back then people understood that it was all about survival of the fittest, meaning the most cunning and feared, not to mention flinty. These days, people wouldn't know flint if it started their ass on fire in a movie theater. Nowadays it's survival of the least offensive, and may the bland guy win. At least it will be until some real slick bastard comes along and reminds us what it's all about, like some kind of big business Jesus Christ. I personally can't wait; this infantile obsession with "fair play" is really starting to chap my ass.
Jesus, did anyone see the tits on that girl waiting in line over there? I mean, she could lose a few pounds around the middle before she'd be a bona-fide knockout, but still, good lord! A man could get lost in that cleavage. And I hope it's me. I wonder how she feels about 50 year-old married men? Maybe she's got some kind of corporate take-over fantasy rolling around in that pretty little cock-teasing head of hers.
I think I'm going to ask her to join my staff. º Last Column: I Know You Love Meº more columns
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Milestones2003: The infamous "Battle of the Bulge" breaks out at when office wench Ivana Folger-Balzac mistakes Ramrod Hurley's beerbelly for a birthing alien larvae and sets into the Acting-Editor with a can opener. The skirmish and resultant standoff lasts 18 hours and claims the lives of several Crochet! magazine staffers, for whom the commune observes a moment of near-silence.Now HiringSexecutioner. Why does everybody keep laughing when we say that? We need a dude who can kill some fucking people in an official capacity, okay? What's so funny about that? You guys are sick. Anyway, pay commensurate to experience. Must provide own mask, axe, electric chair, whatever floats your boat.Least Effective SARS Protective Efforts| 1. | Stop breathing | | 2. | Fire handgun blindly at coughs | | 3. | Smoking deceased SARS victims | | 4. | Wave hand, say "Don't go in Toronto! Whew!" | | 5. | Drinking imported Hong Kong bathwater | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 6/24/2002 Well hey, America! Who'd have thought you'd be back for part two of our entertainmentalicious Summer Preview? I mean, what are the chances of that? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were I'd have to bet the odds were close to 100-7-245-9. Needless to say, I'm damned impressed. I looks like you've held up your end of the bargain, so I'm going to do my best to make this EP the policiest yet. This month we're taking a gander at the ass-half of the summer movie releases and asking the age-old question: where's the manager with those ticket refunds?
In Theaters
Austin Powers in Goldmember
Everybody knows Mike Meyers is a sharp guy, but does anyone really think he can make a spoof of Jerry...
Well hey, America! Who'd have thought you'd be back for part two of our entertainmentalicious Summer Preview? I mean, what are the chances of that? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were I'd have to bet the odds were close to 100-7-245-9. Needless to say, I'm damned impressed. I looks like you've held up your end of the bargain, so I'm going to do my best to make this EP the policiest yet. This month we're taking a gander at the ass-half of the summer movie releases and asking the age-old question: where's the manager with those ticket refunds?
In Theaters
Austin Powers in Goldmember
Everybody knows Mike Meyers is a sharp guy, but does anyone really think he can make a spoof of Jerry Seinfeld's American Express commercials work for 90 minutes? Sure, there's a lot of Superman material to be mined there, but once you get past the "Invisible Man boinking Wonder Woman" joke I think it's going to get old fast.
The Crocodile Hunter: The Main Course
Now here's a concept we can all get behind: that inbred Aussie redneck finally gets his ass eaten by alligators. Or crocodiles, whatever. I don't think anyone's going to argue about snout shape when they're being thrashed around in the water with their nuts in a croc's vice-like grip. This is a film idea that was about as overdue as Britney Does the Bad News Bears. Not to mention it's got a great soundtrack that includes Men at Work's cover of Crocodile Rock and that hilarious parody song Who Let the Ducks Out? that you've been hearing about on the net.
K-19: The Widowmaker
I hate to be the bearer of shitty news, but it looks like James Belushi and that fuckin' dog are back again. This time the twist on the franchise is that the dog's got some kind of hyper space-rabies and has acquired a taste for blood, so Belushi's got to track him down (surely stepping in shit along the way) and cut the dog's heart out with a pen knife before burning it in a crematorium, blah blah blah. This trend-aping is supposed to scare us, but I'm about as scared as I was when I first saw the cover for M.C. Hammer's The Funky Headhunter album. Which is to say, pretty scared, but not for the right reasons.
Like Mike
Kidflick that probably sounded like a better deal before Tyson started head-butting people's fists and getting his ass handed to him on a regular basis. Regardless, bedwetting rap sensation Little Misogynist displays some charisma in his acting debut as a pint-size boxer who learns he can suddenly hang with the big boys when he discovers that all of his punches fall at crotch-level.
Men in Black Tubes
Hey, it worked as a Madonna video, so why not drag it out onto the silver screen and let the general non-MTV-watching public poke it with a stick, eh? That's what I'm imagining the producers thought to themselves as they sat around a martini breakfast at some swanky Hollywood gyp joint and tossed around ideas like midgets at an Arkansas bowling alley. Apparently this is one of the ideas that stuck, probably only because the rest of the producers were afraid to admit they'd never seen the video. Anyway, the final product turned out pretty arty, and no one can doubt that the Maternal Girl looks good in a wetsuit made out of plastic six-pack holder rings, but the plot lost me when they were whipping the little Chicano guy out in the rain.
Milo & Stitch
Lovers of all-animal films like Woofers the Cross-Country Dog and Barnyard Porno Volume 3 have been waiting thirteen long years for a sequel to the dark coming-of-age tale Milo & Otis, the undisputed king of the kitten-chucking genre of films. If any of them were betting that 2002 would be their year, then somebody owes them a handjob because Milo the cat is coming out of string-batting retirement for one more turn on the merry-go-round called Hollywood. Diehard fans will be happy to hear that wooden-acting little dog Otis isn't back for the sequel, thanks to his being eaten by a hippo on the set of a shampoo commercial back in the original film's heyday. He's been replaced by a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig named Stitch, who starts out the movie cute, in an ugly-little-pig kind of way, but by the end of the movie has eaten himself into some kind of belly-dragging nightmare destined to be left behind on a family camping trip. Surely the DeNiro of animal actors, Stitch goes all the way for this thinly-veiled Elvis bio-parable, with Milo lending a purring dignity as Stitch's backwoods huckster of a personal manager.
Minority Depot
Bad as it was, NBC's liberal-pleasing sitcom at least served a purpose when it was on TV. With a cast representing every racial group on the planet, plus one ignorant, backwoods, racist, sexist and certifiably ugly white dude, the show at least managed to clam up the social critics who argue that there aren't enough Korean weightlifting champion women on network sitcoms. But there is such a thing as throwing a dog too many bones, as will be evidenced when this turkey sucks its way over to the silver screen this summer. And a note to the Hollywood bigwigs in charge of this one: if you think you can pass off Tom Cruise as ugly, you've obviously never been to Pennsylvania.
The Powerpuff Girls
A trio of New Jersey High School broads discover that a whole new world opens up to them when they spend their Sweet 16 birthday loot on breast enlargement surgery. Teaches the powerful lesson to young girls everywhere that money can't buy you love, but it can buy you a nice rack and a lifetime of popularity and marriage proposals, not to mention a sweet gig as a trophy wife. I tell you, chicks have the life.
Rain of Fire
Jesus Christ, somebody want to tell me who pissed off Prince so bad? Last time I checked he was a soft-spoken boogie machine with a flair for offensive asswear, now I turn around and he's some kind of Hollywood angel of death? I thought I was going to get some hot, half-naked dancing mulattos, not Nine Inch Nails, The Movie. I don't want to start any rumors, but I think somebody must have keyed his little red corvette something awful.
Road to Perdition
There are about three people on the planet who think you can make a Road… picture without Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, and apparently Tom Hanks is one of them. And whoever thought the snore-inducing berg of Perdition, Florida was an exotic locale on par with Bali, Hong Kong and Zanzibar needs to have his dentures rinsed off. Hanks and Paul Newman do their best to keep the laughs coming as a couple of numb-nutted mafia hitmen, but this series was old back when Bob Hope still had that "new guy" smell.
Stuart Little 2
Talk about timing. Everybody's been waiting since they were five for that lying little duck to get what's coming to him, and it looks like the sky's about to fall on Stuart Little. We all love to see a little comeuppance dished out to some hothead who never learned the lesson of The Boy Who Cried Wolverine, but I'll personally be in line just to see how far the technology of duck-bashing has come since the Daffy-blasting days of my youth.
Whew, America, I think that's about that. I hope your summer is full of big-screen thrills and painless sprints to the restrooms during the dull scenes. Check back in a month and who knows what you'll find in this spot? I'm serious, I'm not even sure myself. But if I know Hollywood, they'll keep churning out the review fodder and we should get along fine. One more thing America: I don't know if Jennifer Connelly is going to get naked in The Hulk, so you can stop emailing me about it any time now. What am I supposed to be, her girlfriend slash confidant or something? Just because you roll with the commune doesn't always mean everybody takes your calls all the time, or even if you're a commune writer pretending to be from E! Online. See you next time!   |
