Americans Kind of Disappointed Al-Qaeda Hasn't Struck Again

n the two-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York City, many Americans marvel that in spite of the unanimously dire predictions of future attacks from the nation’s experts, the group thought to be responsible, Al-Qaeda, has been so quiet since. Too quiet.

“Weren’t we supposed to be writhing in the streets like the imperialist dogs we are by now?� questioned Doug Breiner of Minneapolis. “I thought for sure they would have nuked a bridge or drove an Amtrak train into the Sears Tower or something by now. What gives?�

“Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m glad nobody’s died or anything,� explained Breiner. “I’m not a sicko. But I’m kinda pissed we’ve been all worried for so long with no kind of payoff. It’s like hiding in your basement from a tornado all night and then finding out the guy on the news was talking about a Oldsmobile Toronado or something. Just kind of a pisser, sort of.�

The same sentiment has been echoed all across the country, as Americans come to grips with their lives not coming to a flaming, catastrophic end at any time during the last two years.

“Yeah, what the hell have those guys been up to?� asked an indignant Maury Jackson of Inkster, Michigan. “I guess maybe we overestimated them, I didn’t think they were the kind of terrorist organization that would just rest on their laurels after making a big splash. But I guess fame changes people. You know, that inner fire kinda fades out or whatever. It’s too bad, really. Hey, is it true Quentin Tarantino’s got a new movie coming out?�

Countless Americans remember with an air of awed nostalgia the many colorful ways security experts and politicians told them they would die only two short years ago. From jet-fuel infernos to anthrax-laced crop dusters, poisoned water reservoirs, truck bombs at day-care centers, botulism-infected milk hosed on toddlers, kamikaze suicide bombers at the GAP and nuclear power plants infiltrated by really smart Al-Qaeda moles, American security experts took an almost perverse glee in detailing the many varieties of heart-exploding terror that would inevitably follow in the wake of 9/11.

“I guess they’re probably pretty distracted now that we blew up their country and stuff,� mused NYU junior Patsy Washington about Al-Qaeda. “Which is good I guess. But it would’ve been kinda cool to see what crazy shit they dreamt up next, you know? Somebody told me they were gonna hide razor blades in all our toilet paper, that would’ve been nuts.�

“I guess it was inevitable that after a while all those constant terror alerts that never put out would lose their impact,� said retiree Sharon Henline, stroking her Yorkshire terrier. “Tell you the truth, at this point I’m more worried about that black guy who hangs out by the pay phone down on the corner. He looks kinda shady.�

That black guy who hangs out by the pay phone down on the corner, Tyrell Hughes, expressed similar sentiments. “Al-Qaeda? Nah man, fuck Al-Qaeda. How’ve I got time to worry about that when I’ve got some crazy bitch siccing her little dog on me every morning when I’m waiting for my ride to work? Damn.�

Muslims Protest Violent Cartoons by Fucking Shit Up

Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden

Stealers Wheel Win Super Bowl, Says Heavily Accented Man

Colin Farrell Claims Responsibility for Groin Injury That Sidelined Kwan

I have emerged from my underground bunker. The Thai place will no longer deliver food there. It was fun while it lasted, but since the world has yet to blow up under the leadership of George W. Bush, the international response might not be exactly what I predicted. They're probably taking a "wait and see rather than destroy the world" approach, and I will follow that lead. For now.

Personally, if I were a Thai delivery guy, I would be happy to give blood and urine samples to a customer who asked for them before letting you enter the domicile. But that's just me—security isn't a big concern in Thailand, I suppose. Not a lot of cases of stolen identity.

But let's put that behind us. I picked an opportune time to return from exile, as I can see. The new commune is looking sharp, thanks for the redesign go to Randy and Glynis in IT for that. My return was also timely in that Gay Bagel's influence here has been growing stronger in the meantime. They all hate him, of course, nothing new on that front, but without my steady leadership, Raoul Dunkin, commune nutsack, has entirely disappeared, and I think they have been getting ever-closer to making Lil Duncan some sort of woman leader here, to combat Gay's attempts to take over the commune. She tells me she's been running the commune since my absence, and I humor her. No one can run the commune, baby. It's like a tornado. Can you run a tornado? No, you can't—liar.

They have made some changes I'm not so sure about. Gay Bagel was all "statistics" this and "statistics" that, apparently referring to statistics of a site. Under pressure from Big Gay, as his enemies call him, Lil instituted a ratings system for the weekly commune pieces here. It's for advertising sales figures, she told me. I said that's Advertising's job, not ours. She said she went to advertising and Shelk's been waiting all this time for sales figures before proceeding. I told her to tell Shelk sales figures are somebody else's job, not his, and not ours. I don't know who should do that.

To get to the point already, goddammit, I had to bend a little to keep Gay from making another power play for control. We're wasting money, Gay said, paying all these people to do columns and news and having no way to make money off our endeavors. He argued that it's vital we figure out how many people are reading the commune, what they're reading, and the benefits and cons (business speak nonsense) of each piece. He told me I should no longer give people a column just because they buy me a drink, or I think seeing their picture in the commune staff photo will be funny. I ask him what other criteria are available to decide who to hire and who to not hire. Well, sir, don't ever do that. I got a list a mile long. The guy is such a knob, it's hard to believe we're related.

Hence you'll notice the new commune ratings system, just to the right side of the page, under the big picture that we put there because we think it's funny. These numbers are pretty raw, of course—judging by them, you would initially think no one is reading the commune. But we haven't properly interpreted the data yet. I just hired a guy, Perry "Bigger" Dunston, to research all those numbers and tell us exactly what they mean, with the idea that hopefully we'll be able to cut some deadweight around the office and keep on people who can make the commune more profitable. Dunston charges $2,000 a week for his service, but when you're trying to reduce spending, you can't spare any expense.

So bear with us, faithful readers. Or reader. We are doing what we can to make the commune the kind of online magazine you want to read—you, and hopefully, ten to twenty thousand white males ages 18-34.

º Last Column: The Election of the Twenty-First Century
º more columns

According to the free calendar I got with my last tank of gas, October is Get to Know a Bug Month. Who knew? Personally, I think you should take this as your invitation to crack open a weevil and see what the juicy little bugger has got going on inside. I mean, really, what better time?


You ever stop to think for a minute about what sausage really is? I know, I barfed too. So to answer your question, just the eggs and toast will be fine.


And nothing at all against the nasty little things, but what exactly goes into making a dumpling? Several heaping spoonfuls of dump? That can't be FDA approved.


Speaking of such, you ever wonder about the fragments of chicken that come in a can of chicken noodle soup? To me, these things seem more accidental than anything. Like every once in a while a chicken gets loose at the plant and like a big idiot it runs right into the fan, and some leathery-lipped rube up in the watchtower turns to his buddy Earl and says "Yeeep. Looks like we got us a soup chicken." Personally, I don't eat anything that looks like the remnants from an explosion. McDonalds at least has the good taste to compact the miscellaneous chicken shrapnel they buy at wholesale from the minefields of Bosnia down into nugget form.


Few people know this, but you can get around quite a few sticky FDA regulations by slapping a McPrefix onto the names of food items that don't strictly conform to the guidelines set for their namesakes. It's like when you read on a package that something is "beef flavored." Give me a break, you hit a kangaroo with your jeep and a couple of bullion cubes rubbed on its ass qualify the whole damn thing as "beef flavored" as far as the law is concerned. It's a shady business to the core.


Who doesn't love a good musical? Me, for one.


I mean, has anyone actually ever seen Grease? What a nightmare. If I wanted to look at John Travolta that long I'd fly down to Hawaii and marry the guy, I swear. If TBS had any heart at all they'd help us out with some censoring blocks or something. Or at least they could cut out some of the singing parts.


Flipping through a Highlights for Children at the doctor's office the other day, I learned an interesting fact. Did you know that bats can hold their breath for up to an hour? Forgive me if I never sleep again, but that's creepy. How are we supposed to stop these things if they ever overrun the earth? Flame throwers? I've always said that if there was some kind of bat apocalypse you'd find me at the bottom of the pool at the Y, but that contingency plan is all shot to hell now.


I'm not sure what I'm going to pick as my new safe spot, but if the bat apocalypse comes and you haven't heard more from me on the subject, I'd check at the local Chuck E. Cheese's. This isn't really based on anything scientific but I'm guessing bats would find that place just as annoying as anybody else. Unless there's some weird bat religion that happens where they come to pray to the giant singing rat. I hadn't even thought of that, it might be the last place I'd want to be hiding out. Though I suppose in a pinch I could strap on a guitar and play it like I was in tight with the big, mechanical bat deity.


Thinking fast. If you ask me, that's the key to surviving any variety of bat apocalypse.

º Last Column: Chug a Lung
º more columns