Red Bagel: You the Man of the Year

n a tearful ceremony held in his apartment, Red Bagel accepted his fourth consecutive "You the Man of the Year" Award for all of his efforts in whatever it is that he does.

"It's a great honor, and a welcome surprise that I receive this award," said Bagel, in a speech possibly plagiarized from one of this three previous speeches. "As the creator of the Yitmotty, I understand what it truly means to everyone, especially me. And that makes it mean all the more to receive this for the fourth time."

The YTMOTY (or "Yitmotty," as has never caught on with anyone but Bagel) ceremony doubled as a going-away party for departing Editor Bagel, who goes on to do whatever a sick person with delusions of grandeur does on his sabbatical, taking possible mummy Sampson L. Hartwig with him.

Despite having done little for the advancement of anything except paranoia during 2002, Red Bagel was unanimously chosen by a distinct panel consisting of Bagel himself, to no one's surprise. In addition to publishing the commune and acting as its editor, Bagel spends too much time in bars and court, frequently drunk in both. 2002 was Bagel's biggest yet, as he introduced a semi-monthly column where he proposed such ludicrous conspiracy theories as puppets being reincarnated dead people and a character from the movie Tron kidnapping his personnel.

As a new part of the ceremony this year, commune Editor Red Bagel had everyone from the staff give a short speech explaining why they voted for their choice for Man of the Year, i.e. Bagel himself. "Because if I don't you'll fire me" was disallowed as being a part of any speech, as this reporter found out during his presentation.

Highlights of the ceremony included Lil Duncan's pregnancy test results (sparking a relieved sigh from the entire room), Rok Finger's diatribe against wheat pennies, Boner Cunningham's lively re-enactment of the famous Flashdance sequence, and Omar Bricks' surprise fireworks display that sent three to the hospital, though at least one was most likely faking just to get out of the party early.

After the procession of obligatory praise, and after he himself had downed two bottles of Makers' Mark, Red Bagel took the stage for his long-awaited speech, which considering he's had three chances now to do it should have been better.

"Some men are followers and some men are leaders," said Bagel, earning a laugh when the slurred "followers" came out sounding like "flowers." "It's clear by now that I am the leader. I have tried to do something new and different with the commune, and new and different is what I've done." This reporter stressed the word "good" was appropriately absent from that description and was forced to finish listening to the speech bound and gagged.

"This year was a banner year for the commune. We've kept the quality of the commune news and reporting consistent from January to December," continued Bagel, once again distinctly avoiding the word "good." "From its humble beginnings the commune has crawled out of the mud with you parasites on its back, and we're headed to the top. We're no longer publishing on the back of previously-published pamphlets; that was getting a little expensive anyway. The internet has allowed us to move unreigned, unchecked, and I'm announcing here and now that 2004 will be the best year for the commune yet."

Bagel then conveniently passed out and broke his Hawaiian tiki coffee table, leaving us to wonder whether he meant to suggest the correct year of 2003 or if we're suffering through another lame year like 2002 until 2004 rolls around.

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O Director, Where Art Thou?

That's what semi-intelligent critics who love making minor alterations to famous titles or phrases should be asking. Nobody else seems curious as to what's happened to two-hit wonder Quentin Tarantino. The writer/director defined '90s pop-culture referencing in film with his fantastic works Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. He also did Jackie Brown.

And then what happened, I ask? Like many others I actually have no clue, just extremely curious. The title "The Gimp Has Claimed Quentin Tarantino" is just a creative way of referencing his previous work and posing the topic, I actually don't know.

It does make you think, though. Alright, stop now.

Chances are something happened to Tarantino during the making of Jackie Brown, the making of his last unreleased feature, or one of his infamous verbal battles with Spike Lee. With all the guns and swords and backroom raping that goes on in a Tarantino film, it's entirely possible something awful destroyed him before his next film could be released. This must have happened sometime around 1997. Unless it perhaps happened earlier…?

How do we know for sure Quentin Tarantino made Jackie Brown? In fact, how do we know for sure Tarantino did anything after Pulp Fiction? When he accepted the Oscar at the Academy Awards ceremony that year he seemed a little suspect to me. Not to mention all through that From Dusk Till Dawn film. I surmise maybe Tarantino never made it to either one of those events.

Now's the part where you smugly doubt me, saying that Tarantino has been seeing numerous places since Pulp Fiction debuted. Listen, toad, I don't need to be reminded of facts I have exhaustively researched. Take that tone with me again you'll be reading this column with your eyes in your ass. Don't make me try to figure out that physical nightmare, just shut up already.

Alright, I'm calmer now. The truth is, in theory, Quentin Tarantino, the talented writer/director, has been replaced with a lookalike. You might suspect an android replacement—I did at first, but the animations of most human beings are beyond current android technology, especially for the nervous manic animations of Tarantino.

Delve into your collective sitcom psyche and ask yourself, if it's not a robot, not a future or past self (trust me on this one), and not another Tarantino from another universe, what is it? If you said "twin brother," you're right on the money. If you said "mask," please, you're wasting my time and yours with your bizarre fantasies.

I'd bet dollars to dildos Quentin Tarantino's less popular, less talented brother has imprisoned or eliminated his brother and is parading around as him. This other brother—let's assume his name is Quincy since parents always name identical twins with an alliterative name—lacks the technical film knowledge Tarantino himself, a former video store clerk, possesses, and therefore had ground to a halt any filmmaking Tarantino was in the midst of.

He's riding around on Tarantino's kick-ass coattails, hobnobbing at all the parties and rubbing celebrity elbows and squawking like a chicken while his brother remains missing. Tarantino has become the victim in his own crime-drama, tied to a chair, ball-gagged, while some smarmy redneck hollers to bring out the gimp. We must find him and free him before the gimp is brought out. And when I say "we" I mean "you."ame way—a little painful at first, not without some mis-steps, but ultimately for the better of everyone.

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Uproar has swept over me, good people. You want to know why? You want to know WHY? I can't hear you! That's better.

This morning, my good wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, suggested maybe it's time we possibly consider getting a dog if that's okay with me. Why, I was truncheoned! How dare she bring a new family member into our little fold without consulting me!

Sure, we've had discussions like this before: parakeets, goldfish, rats that don't live in the walls. There was one time Arvelyn was pretty adamant about getting a cock, and I never thought I'd wear her down. But eventually logic prevailed and with the price of a chicken coop and feed continually skyrocketing, she realized it was just a fantasy.

And now this dog thing rears its ugly cold-nosed head. From the sheer force of her words—"I think I'd like a dog, Rokwell,"—I don't think she'll be swayed. It may even be pointless trying. But even if we end up getting the dog, I don't like the way she's carried out this campaign of propaganda and brute force.

In the past we've sat down at the family table for these sort of discussions—I in my great big chair, Arvelyn in her slightly smaller chair, Makeshift, our cat, in his tiny chair that's just right. And we've talked about this like adults, at least Arvelyn and I have, Makeshift sometimes just licks his butt in quiet dissention. But these rough and tumble guerrilla tactics don't sit very well on the head of Rokwell T. Finger.

I dread the thought of it now: playing fetch, drinking out of the toilet, dropping feces left and right—all of that will have to stop once I assume the responsibility of dog ownership. Not to mention the miniature birthday parties with the dog wearing a tiny tux and I have to eat whatever kind of cake he chooses, even if it's chocolate swirl or marble—I will not have it, good people. Again—I. Will. Not. Have. It.

I think in the meantime I will put an ad in the paper, to stall Arvelyn's dog search. She will be convinced I'm all for it, but the ad will have such high expectations that no dog could possibly live up to it. A sample would read:

"WANTED: Empowered, professional-minded canine with own dish. Must be able to fetch, cartwheel, drive large-engine truck, shake, converse at length on the works of Victor Hugo, proficient in MS Word, Excel, Lotus, Quark X-Press. Starting salary of belly-scratchin' and Kibbles 'N' Bits 'N' Bits 'N' Bits. Must read ad and respond in person. No Schitzus."

Ha! I'd like to see the dog who could fit that bill.

And if one does give us a call… God help us all.

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