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Records Indicate Strom Thurmond Died in 1982December 9, 2002 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon News of the Senator's own death reaches him during his 100th birthday celebration epublican Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina celebrated his 100th birthday this week, a feat made even more amazing by the fact that he died 20 years ago.
"This striking news is just further evidence of Strom's amazing longevity," opined former Sen. Bob Dole, R-Kan., who himself died after falling down a well in 1996, but came back because he forgot his glasses.
Thurmond, the oldest and whitest senator in history, reached his 100th birthday Thursday surrounded by family, friends, and more zombies than a George Romero film. When asked if they ever expected to see this day after Thurmond's death from a heart attack in 1982, partygoers were philosophical.
"Strom's always pulling shit like that. Hell, he died in my pool last weekend. I thought I was...
epublican Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina celebrated his 100th birthday this week, a feat made even more amazing by the fact that he died 20 years ago.
"This striking news is just further evidence of Strom's amazing longevity," opined former Sen. Bob Dole, R-Kan., who himself died after falling down a well in 1996, but came back because he forgot his glasses.
Thurmond, the oldest and whitest senator in history, reached his 100th birthday Thursday surrounded by family, friends, and more zombies than a George Romero film. When asked if they ever expected to see this day after Thurmond's death from a heart attack in 1982, partygoers were philosophical.
"Strom's always pulling shit like that. Hell, he died in my pool last weekend. I thought I was going to have to spend my entire Saturday night at the morgue, but then he got better," explained neighbor Sylvester Coles.
"Sure, dad gave us a scare back in '82, and we even had a funeral, but then one day he just walked in the door, sat down, and started watching cartoons on the TV. Nobody ever really said anything about it or asked him what happened. I mean, how do you bring that up? Ever since then we've just come to accept that dad dies sometimes," said Thurmond's daughter Julie.
Thurmond, who is retiring at the end of this session of Congress because nobody appreciates Polack jokes anymore, served for 48 years, as near as anyone can remember, and goes out the oldest man ever to serve in the Senate and the lifetime record holder for scrambled eggs eaten.
Frail and confined to a wheelchair, Thurmond appeared moved by his hissing bowels and the event held in his honor. "Gaaaaah! Hsssssaaah! Fbbbbbtttsss!" he told the gathering.
Thurmond's career tracked many of the cultural changes that took place in the South he came to represent. He won election to the Senate in 1954, the only write-in candidate ever to capture a Senate seat, after he convinced election officials that he also went by the nicknames "Donald Duck" and "Hugo Fukov." Years later he secured his legacy by originating the "Southurn Manefesto" that urged defiance of the 1954 Supreme Court ruling on school desegregation. In 1957 he spoke for 24 hours on the Senate floor in opposition to civil rights legislation, the longest filibuster in Senate history. Three Senators committed suicide during the speech when Thurmond asked if he'd already told the story about his black friend Danny.
In 1964, Thurmond, then a Democrat, switched to the Republican Party when he realized he was the only Democrat on the "Back to Africa" committee. But once civil rights law became a reality, Thurmond adjusted, learning new jokes about Koreans and the handicapped.
"America outgrew old prejudices. Strom himself came to symbolize a reasoned transformation," Dole said with something like a straight face.
Referring to Thurmond's reputation as a lady's man, Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott dropped a pair of wet dentures down a waitress's cleavage to the delight of onlookers. Thurmond, however, looked terrified when informed that Lott's 89-year-old mother had a crush on him.
The highlight of the night came when Thurmond reenacted his 1982 death by having a massive stroke and slumping into a punch bowl, only to reappear later with his arms full of chocolate bunnies.
"That's dad," shrugged daughter Julie, looking slightly unnerved. the commune news is low in saturated fat but high on diet pills. Lil Duncan is the commune's Washington correspondent, though don't take that to mean that she votes on anything other than the polls at Mademoiselle.com.
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 November 25, 2002
I Challenge You to a Race Around the WorldIt's clear you are as strong in your convictions as I am, Nuttley. It reminds me of the old parable/tale/cliché of the immovable object meets the irresistible force. Each of us is so well-matched in so many areas. A chess game or series of questions on 1980s television trivia would go on for centuries, or until one of us died, and would solve nothing for the time invested. It's high time we settled this dispute in the only way remaining: A race around the world!
If I could see your face, would I see fear in your eyes, Nuttley? I doubt very much your fearlessness in facing such a trial, even if I don't doubt your tenacity. The simple fact is, when I set the appointment to meet tomorrow morning in London at Big Ben, I can practically hear your nervous breath tremble at the thought. A race around the world—is he mad? Yet I know you will be there, because despite the apparent insanity and recklessness of it all, you are both a man of your word and a man of fervor. You will be there tomorrow morning, because you know it is the only way to win our argument.
The rules will be simple, as previously established in the obscure chapter of Robert's Rules of Order for around-the-world races. Journey shall be over sea, air, or land through any available means, but you must go all the way around the world and establish your presence at the agreed-upon global markers. In short, it doesn't matter how you get there, but you must get there, Nuttley. I know...
º Last Column: Ode to the Debunker º more columns
It's clear you are as strong in your convictions as I am, Nuttley. It reminds me of the old parable/tale/cliché of the immovable object meets the irresistible force. Each of us is so well-matched in so many areas. A chess game or series of questions on 1980s television trivia would go on for centuries, or until one of us died, and would solve nothing for the time invested. It's high time we settled this dispute in the only way remaining: A race around the world!
If I could see your face, would I see fear in your eyes, Nuttley? I doubt very much your fearlessness in facing such a trial, even if I don't doubt your tenacity. The simple fact is, when I set the appointment to meet tomorrow morning in London at Big Ben, I can practically hear your nervous breath tremble at the thought. A race around the world—is he mad? Yet I know you will be there, because despite the apparent insanity and recklessness of it all, you are both a man of your word and a man of fervor. You will be there tomorrow morning, because you know it is the only way to win our argument.
The rules will be simple, as previously established in the obscure chapter of Robert's Rules of Order for around-the-world races. Journey shall be over sea, air, or land through any available means, but you must go all the way around the world and establish your presence at the agreed-upon global markers. In short, it doesn't matter how you get there, but you must get there, Nuttley. I know you too well, though; you wouldn't cheat, it's beneath you. You won't find me beneath you either—I will be directly ahead! Ha!
You might expect me to take a plane all the way around the world, given my friend Danny Turrell has a pilot's license, but the thought doesn't appeal to me. Traveling by air alone might get me there first with little question, but taking the less paved path of boat and land travel would make victory all the sweeter once it's in my hand. I'm not ruling out a short sally in a hot-air balloon, mind you, but if you expect me to flutter on gossamer wings rather than plant shoed feet on firm ground, you're sadly mistaken.
We shall carry only that which fits on our back, Nuttley, eat when we can catch food, drink when we can lay hands on water. It is a test of will as much as speed, endurance as much as swiftness. Of character even more than rate of travel. The exact mathematical formula is C=d (s X w+E) I think, but you'll have to check with a mathematician. I'm a raconteur.
Don't even ask to bring along your girlfriend, or even your pot-belly pig; no race around the world has ever been a family affair. The solitude of those moments as you bicycle toward the end of the Asian continent are the importance of the experience. The loneliness of the vast open sea as you search desperately for fish to eat and fresh water to drink crossing the Pacific ocean. I wouldn't deprive you of that, Nuttley, and wouldn't allow you to deprive yourself either.
We're agreed, I assume, to meet tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time in London, at the base of Big Ben, where large crowds of friends, well-wishers, and the simply curious will gather in droves to see us off. They'll think us mad, I'm sure; I couldn't deny the possibility they're right. It will be a rigorous test of character, one we'll both be better off for. But once I win—and I will win—there will be none of these petty arguments ever again, and I'll prove the Cure is and always has been a better band than Echo and the Bunnymen º Last Column: Ode to the Debunkerº more columns
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|  September 6, 2004
Rok Finger: Not HotAs many of you good people may know, I am a small man, but I am overfilled with confidence. I move with a sureness many others in the world lack—whether justified or not, I am secure in every single thing I do and have ever done. Of course, like most people, I may have a few regrets here and there, but what is important at heart is I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. Perfect? No, I’m afraid not. But I come damn close. All except one gargantuan elephant-in-the-room exception: My appearance. Yes, whether it’s my miniscule, stocky body or the train wreck sitting on my shoulders that is mockingly called my face, I am a hideous man. Or, as my ex-wife Arvelyn used to say, before the divorce, I am insecure about my looks. Since the divorce she calls me Leatherface. So I prefer to remember before the divorce. And you know, I thought—she’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with my features, at least not individually, even if they make a nauseating mess in the specific way they’re compiled. I merely lack the confidence in my looks to enjoy them. It’s not my fault I feel bad about the way I look. Years of screams and crying children have made me believe I am not easy on the eyes. Like whiny women complain, I have been held up to unrealistic images presented in the media, or in my case, everyone else in the world surrounding me. If it were not for the people standing by, silently declaring differently, I would be quite a...
º Last Column: Camembert in Love º more columns
As many of you good people may know, I am a small man, but I am overfilled with confidence. I move with a sureness many others in the world lack—whether justified or not, I am secure in every single thing I do and have ever done. Of course, like most people, I may have a few regrets here and there, but what is important at heart is I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. Perfect? No, I’m afraid not. But I come damn close. All except one gargantuan elephant-in-the-room exception: My appearance. Yes, whether it’s my miniscule, stocky body or the train wreck sitting on my shoulders that is mockingly called my face, I am a hideous man. Or, as my ex-wife Arvelyn used to say, before the divorce, I am insecure about my looks. Since the divorce she calls me Leatherface. So I prefer to remember before the divorce. And you know, I thought—she’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with my features, at least not individually, even if they make a nauseating mess in the specific way they’re compiled. I merely lack the confidence in my looks to enjoy them. It’s not my fault I feel bad about the way I look. Years of screams and crying children have made me believe I am not easy on the eyes. Like whiny women complain, I have been held up to unrealistic images presented in the media, or in my case, everyone else in the world surrounding me. If it were not for the people standing by, silently declaring differently, I would be quite a handsome man. Well, that may be going too far, but I at least wouldn’t notice I frighten animals. I might even be able to destroy all the world’s mirrors and reflective surfaces and forget the plight covering my skull. But enough of this sad-sack moping, I thought. I have spent too many years assuming the worst about my mug, and it was high time I proved the world at large wrong. The opportunity came with a cable that runs right into my house. Yes, since moving back to these United States, we have acquired the Inter-Net in my house. If you haven’t received it yet, you should really look into it. Ask your doctor, or whoever needs to be asked about getting it. In addition to receiving great offers for mortgages at reduced interest rates and exciting new pornography, the Inter-Net is a great source of information. In my case, I can post my pictures on websites and find out how I rate on the "Hot/Not Hot" scale. I didn’t even know there was such a scale until a routine search for Tabasco products enlightened me. What a tool! That’s how the Inter-Net installer Mitch referred to it. Or possibly to me, the specificity was quite uncertain. But I agree, with the former. The Inter-Net finally allows anonymous strangers to tell each other they completely conform to society’s expectations. No more needless posturing about the substance of a person. We can now know instantly whether or not we’re desirable in ways that people really care about. Some disagreeable people—hippies—might tell us the inner beauty of a person really matters. Get real. How many sites on the Inter-Net rate your personality? I don’t care. I’m not interested. All Rok Finger needed to know was: Hot or Not? Well, I’m not. Not hot. Not at all. Quite amazingly non-hot, according to the numerical ratings. Some of the weaker-stomach sites refused to even post my pictures. The "thong of the day" site filed a lawsuit just for my mailing Polaroids. It’s a hard, brutal truth, like a White Castle hamburger, very difficult to swallow. But I’m tough, and forget many things quickly. I’ll find a way to suck up my misery and get past it. In fact, I think as a treat to myself I’ll order that Inter-Net that everyone’s been talking about. º Last Column: Camembert in Loveº more columns
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Milestones1969: Red Bagel finds true calling when he stumbles on to faked moon landing being filmed in his local neighborhood YMCA.Now HiringRing-Bearer. Seeking meek carrier of unholy evil, pure of heart and with will to accomplish impossible deed. Three references and two years of experience necessary, start at minimum wage.Top Phrases Never Before Spoken| 1. | Do these pants make my cock look too big? | | 2. | That's one hot retard. | | 3. | Sheboygan? That's my kinda town. | | 4. | That movie would have been better with a lot more Ben Affleck. | | 5. | Hot damn, airplane food! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 3/8/2004 I skipped the Oscars last Sunday, choosing instead to watch the only awards show that matters—the Orson Welch Outstanding Achievements in Cinema Excellence Web Broadcast. It was a little Flash presentation I put together, with all my favorite celebrities, including Agnes Moorehead and Crispin Glover. Not the real celebrities, but amazing likenesses just off enough so as to avoid litigation. Of course, nobody won, since no impressive films were nationally released this year, but you have to admire the untouchable integrity of the awards. That aside, onto the next two weeks worth of DVD releases.
On DVD
Schindler's List
It's against the law in Germany to display Nazi articles these days, and I think out...
I skipped the Oscars last Sunday, choosing instead to watch the only awards show that matters—the Orson Welch Outstanding Achievements in Cinema Excellence Web Broadcast. It was a little Flash presentation I put together, with all my favorite celebrities, including Agnes Moorehead and Crispin Glover. Not the real celebrities, but amazing likenesses just off enough so as to avoid litigation. Of course, nobody won, since no impressive films were nationally released this year, but you have to admire the untouchable integrity of the awards. That aside, onto the next two weeks worth of DVD releases.
On DVD
Schindler's List
It's against the law in Germany to display Nazi articles these days, and I think out of extra guilt they also forbade negative reviews of this 1993 black-and-white guilt trip. Usually I love mopey, film noir cinema, but Spielberg uses sentiment like Cajuns cook with cayenne pepper. Gentiles who sit through it more than once are officially absolved of any wrongdoing in thousands of years of religious oppression. But giving the film credit, it is a harrowing vision of the struggle and spirit of the Jewish people, and how they needed a Catholic kraut to be the subject of a film to really tell the rest of the world their story.
Mona Lisa Smile
Apparently the cause of Mona Lisa's smile was indeed flatulence. Portraits never quite accurately capture those little facts. But this film pays that notion homage with this cinematic squirt in the pants that dredges up the Dead Poets Society genre yet again, this time packed wall to wall with the XX gender. Julia Roberts makes for the perfect film lead in the movie, except for the fact you never buy any school would certify her as a teacher. Her politically-correct way of looking at things years before they invented politically-correctness wins over the vapid student body made up of popular young actresses whose names I haven't bothered to look up. It's worth seeing, if you're writing a graduate thesis on cinema cliché. Otherwise, not on a bet.
21 Grams
Alejandro González Iñárritu is a brilliant director—not good, mind you, but brilliant. It was sheer genius to call a sloppily-edited film an artistic exercise in the use of chronological time. I can easily see how the film-illiterate would believe it. The rest of us in the know, however, smile and wink at each other while watching this nonsensical examination of the human spirit starring Oscar mantles Sean Penn and Benecio Del Toro. The director pushes the boundaries of unpolished, lazy filmmaking and gets off scot-free, though I wouldn't equate that to a good movie, of course. I tip my hat to him, though I won't write his name out again because I nearly sprained a finger trying to type it the first time.
That's all our two-week session allows this week. I think you're all getting better, but I'd like to see you for a few more years to make sure your tastes don't backsliding again. There is a new Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller movie doing quite well at the box office, so apparently some people are still in need of tutelage. Good viewing, America.   |