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September 19, 2005 |
Witness the sexy salvation of the tiny new iPod Nano, as well as the even-smaller Steve Jobs Nano, sold separately ith much of the South either bracing for or fucked up by hurricane damage, the president suffering from historically low approval ratings, and the daily civilian death toll from Iraq taking on Halo proportions, a bruised nation turned its hopes to Apple's latest portable music player this week.
"We fully expect he Nano to change the way we live our lives just as much as the original iPod did back in 1997," Apple founder Steve Jobs announced at a recent press conference, possibly referring to how additional profits for Apple could change his lifestyle for the better. Unfortunately, no one present had a microphone with which to argue or pose questions of semantics. "Besides, I know you've all got shit else going right in your lives right now, so fork over the cash already."...
ith much of the South either bracing for or fucked up by hurricane damage, the president suffering from historically low approval ratings, and the daily civilian death toll from Iraq taking on Halo proportions, a bruised nation turned its hopes to Apple's latest portable music player this week. "We fully expect he Nano to change the way we live our lives just as much as the original iPod did back in 1997," Apple founder Steve Jobs announced at a recent press conference, possibly referring to how additional profits for Apple could change his lifestyle for the better. Unfortunately, no one present had a microphone with which to argue or pose questions of semantics. "Besides, I know you've all got shit else going right in your lives right now, so fork over the cash already." Disaffected Americans from across the iPod-affording spectrum licked their chops in anticipation of the Nano, which is just like the last iPod, except smaller and more expensive. "This year has really been a shit biscuit," lamented Syracuse sophomore Sean Hannesy. "But I'm pretty confident that my spending $250 on an MP3 player is going to turn things around." The release of the Nano comes not a moment too soon for a worn-out American public. With the Catholic Church in icky disarray, misogynistic gangsta rap topping the charts, and the recent news that California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger will seek re-election, many have been searching desperately for a money-spending distraction. Hollywood has provided no solace, with a disappointing batch of summer movies—even by summer movie standards—leading to another terrible box office slump that has limited studio profits to the mere billions. Even sadder, American audiences have been robbed of one of their most time-honored means of avoiding awareness of the world around them. "I like to call it The Summer of Gigli," explained Paramount executive Paul Walters. "I know that came out last year, but this summer really was that bad. It didn't even have a movie notable enough for use in a clever name." Meanwhile, 500 Iraqi civilians were blown up by a different group of Iraqi civilians on Saturday, for reasons incomprehensible to white people. Somehow even more depressing, some asshole in New York this week set the record for consecutive hours of TV-watching, only to have his record rescinded by Guinness when it was discovered he was just watching the first season of Lost on DVD. "Thank God Apple came out with another iPod," sighed tech writer William Pepper. "Otherwise, this could have been a terrible year for everyone. Now it's just terrible for the poor, liberals, Southerners, Iraqis, movie buffs, music fans, Catholics, Sony, Californians, the Amish, steroid-abusing ballplayers, environmentalists, true conservatives, Cubs fans, animals of all kinds and children. I'm probably forgetting somebody. But it's been a bitchin' year for iPod fans, that's my point." the commune news can't afford an iPod ourselves, but we do enjoy sitting very close to people who are enjoying theirs. Ivana Folger-Balzac can't play your favorite tunes for up to 14 hours on a single recharge, but she is remarkably more resistant than an iPod to being ice-picked in the back of a car and left for dead on a Georgia highway in the middle of the night.
 | New photos of Iraqi prisoners in Barely Detained Magazine
Contraceptive sponge returns to shelves; squarepants still unmarketable
A blow for free speech: Leno okayed to make Jackson pedophilia jokes
Da Vinci Code Author Found Guilty of Inspiring National Treasure |
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. Entwistle Pleads Not Guilty of Murder, Last Several Who Albums Condi Rice Hates the Way She Smiles in Pictures |
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 July 12, 2004
Child Star for HireLet the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.
Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.
It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a...
º Last Column: And Justice for Nothing º more columns
Let the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.
Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.
It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a gorilla suit, who cares? I don't even need any speaking lines. I'm eager to work. None of it can be any more humiliating than playing the ukelele with Taco on Conan O'Brien.
I turned down a reality series last year, before this bullshit came along. If you're one of those producers of Help! I'm a Celebrity, Don't Give Me a Sexually-Transmitted Disease I'm ready to talk contract terms now. Maybe you'll get on the air this year if you get bigger star power than Willie Tyler and Lester. So put me on the show. I'll call house meetings and everything, pretend like my feelings are hurt and stuff. I watch all those freak shows.
Not everybody's a producer, I know. Some people aren't involved with the wonderland that is television, not officially, but that shouldn't stop you. You want to make a funny home video? Have your kid swing a croquet hammer, hit me in the nuts—I don't have nuts, of course, but for a good-size paycheck I'll act like I have nuts. Rig a house to fall in, I'll make it look like it all happened by accident, I'll even make the funny noise so the video people don't have to do that. Or we'll sing some duet like Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, I'll make them really believe you don't bring me flowers no more. Hell, I'm not picky. Don't send the video in, let's just make it for your own entertainment, you and your friends. We'll recreate all your favorite episodes of Who's Your Daddy?.
It's not limited to shows either. I can do the stage. We'll put on a burlesque act, like they used to do in France when it was classy and cool, or like they do now in Alabama. I do tame shit, too. I'll sing the Fabulous Thunderbirds at your daughter's Bat Mitzvah. I can do birthday parties, private Labor Day telethons, whatever your big deal is. Have a friend who's in the hospital and think it would be funny for a celebrity to visit them? Let's do it. Let's make it happen.
What I'm trying to say is, I need money, and I'm not picky. Just in case I didn't make it obvious. And just to save anybody else the troubles I've gone through, don't ever hire Jerry Nascar as an attorney. He knows dick about the law, like the judge says, and his "Thirty Minutes or it's Not Free" offer is trickier than it sounds.
I have to go over to Nascar's office right now. I'm doing a commercial for him to help pay off the legal bills. º Last Column: And Justice for Nothingº more columns
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|  May 27, 2002
I Haven't Laughed that Hard Since Mom Killed DadI have to admit, when you fell off the top of that double-decker bus the other day, I couldn't help but laugh. Laugh and point. Then I laughed so hard I had to sit down. As a matter of fact, I haven't laughed that hard since mom shot dad in the head with that crossbow when we were kids.
Remember that? I'll never forget the look on dad's face, before he slouched forward, face-first, into his soup at the dinner table. Remember how the ass-end of the crossbow bolt that was sticking out of dad's head stabbed into a dinner roll, and then that roll was stuck to dad's head when his body flopped out of the chair and onto the floor? Holy shit! I peed myself, I really did. I'll never forget that. Dad was such a card.
And mom! Remember the look on the judge's face when mom gave him the finger during the trial? I've been held in contempt of court a couple of times, but that's the only time I've been arrested for laughing too loud. My stomach hurt for two days after that.
It reminds me of the first time I took you to a dance club, back when we were teenagers. You had your eye on that cute girl over at the bar and I talked you into going over to talk to her, remember that? I remember it like it was yesterday. You were so eager to meet her that you didn't watch where you were walking and somehow managed to step into the back of some girl's sandal who was walking in front of you. God knows you went down fast after that, but the best part was when you...
º Last Column: You and Me are Turkeys º more columns
I have to admit, when you fell off the top of that double-decker bus the other day, I couldn't help but laugh. Laugh and point. Then I laughed so hard I had to sit down. As a matter of fact, I haven't laughed that hard since mom shot dad in the head with that crossbow when we were kids.
Remember that? I'll never forget the look on dad's face, before he slouched forward, face-first, into his soup at the dinner table. Remember how the ass-end of the crossbow bolt that was sticking out of dad's head stabbed into a dinner roll, and then that roll was stuck to dad's head when his body flopped out of the chair and onto the floor? Holy shit! I peed myself, I really did. I'll never forget that. Dad was such a card.
And mom! Remember the look on the judge's face when mom gave him the finger during the trial? I've been held in contempt of court a couple of times, but that's the only time I've been arrested for laughing too loud. My stomach hurt for two days after that.
It reminds me of the first time I took you to a dance club, back when we were teenagers. You had your eye on that cute girl over at the bar and I talked you into going over to talk to her, remember that? I remember it like it was yesterday. You were so eager to meet her that you didn't watch where you were walking and somehow managed to step into the back of some girl's sandal who was walking in front of you. God knows you went down fast after that, but the best part was when you opened your mouth to scream on the way down and accidentally bit the girl you wanted to talk to on the arm. I couldn't believe my eyes! I was laughing so hard I cried. Boy, did you cock that up! I didn't even think it was possible to make a first impression like that. I swear I would have come to help you sooner but I fell down laughing while her boyfriend was kicking you in the head.
We've had some good times, you and me. We've shared a lot of laughs. Others haven't always understood our sense of humor, like the time when auntie Sue farted while she was choking on that marshmallow. I thought uncle Bill was going to smother you with a pillow when you started to hyperventilate from laughing so hard. But I understood. I would have been laughing harder myself except it was the last marshmallow and that meant no s'mores for me.
It figures that we'd get placed with a foster family that had no sense of humor at all. Life was totally wasted on those people. But hey, if they couldn't see the humor in the family dog being eaten by a lion at the zoo, then fuck 'em. Their loss. I swear, with all of their carrying on about who threw the dog over the fence I almost missed it when the lion coughed up his collar. Priceless.
I'll miss you buddy. You always knew how to make me laugh. Just like dad. I'll remember that every time I see some joker get run over by a bus, or think of those tire tracks we had carved into your headstone. Whenever I hear your laugh echoing down from heaven, I'll know somebody dropped a harp on their foot. And I'll be pissed that I missed it. º Last Column: You and Me are Turkeysº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I have a dream… uh… nope, drawing a blank. It was clear as a fuckin' bell this morning, I swear to God. There was something about dolphins, that's all I can remember right now.”
-"King" Luther MartensFortune 500 CookieDon't be so hard on yourself, we all know mama told you not to come, but it ain't so easy when the bitch got titties til' Tuesday. Also, don't give up your dream of eating a tree like it was an ice cream sandwich, we've been charging admission. This week's lucky cancers: fingernail cancer, breath cancer, split ends cancer, silicone implant cancer.
Try again later.Top Recent Mother Mary Appearances| 1. | Wad of wet toilet paper, Gas station restroom floor, Houston TX | | 2. | Numerous, Mother Mary's Gift Shop, Albuquerque NM | | 3. | Fur pattern on Dalmatian's ass, Kingley OK | | 4. | Burrito Del Maria, Taco Bell Extra Value Menu | | 5. | Mary, Mary, ABC Thursdays | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Violet Tiara 9/15/2003 NatureLovely limping little lepers
like to lick my Dr Pepper.
Lice feel nice as honey-nuts
buzz right up a buzzard's butt.
Screaming beetles
weave through weevils
so rude they chewed
all my Big League Chew.
"Motherfucker!" go call Smuckers
'cause I just made some weevil jam.
My own mother's been sending me Spam—
Ma'am, I can only fry so much spiced ham!
"Goddamn!" that ram likes Spam.
"Get him a bib!" Shut up, I am.
Nothing's as funny as Quakers in nature
with big-ass hats and no coffee maker.
Prepare to meet your maker, Quaker,
those bears can smell that you're a faker.
Butterflies ring septic skies
like jellied lies at Mai-Tai time.

Lovely limping little lepers
like to lick my Dr Pepper.
Lice feel nice as honey-nuts
buzz right up a buzzard's butt.
Screaming beetles
weave through weevils
so rude they chewed
all my Big League Chew.
"Motherfucker!" go call Smuckers
'cause I just made some weevil jam.
My own mother's been sending me Spam—
Ma'am, I can only fry so much spiced ham!
"Goddamn!" that ram likes Spam.
"Get him a bib!" Shut up, I am.
Nothing's as funny as Quakers in nature
with big-ass hats and no coffee maker.
Prepare to meet your maker, Quaker,
those bears can smell that you're a faker.
Butterflies ring septic skies
like jellied lies at Mai-Tai time.
Dragonflies who thought it wise
bob in my drink with drowning cries.
"Nature's a reamed dream,"
screams a beam of impure light.
"You bet your bed on a cock fight,
so you've got no right to prophesize."
Carneys copulate with a cornucopia…
This is a sorry excuse for Ethiopia!
Piss on this, I declare that nature is bunk!
And it smells like somebody puked on a skunk.
Camping with carneys and Quakers?
A fool's proposition!
Now get me the hell out of here—
and don't spare the ammunition!   |