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$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0829/';
$bageltitle='Taking Back the commune';
$book='2005/0829/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
$childstar='2005/0829/';
$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0829/';
$drecktitle='First Griswald Dreck Chat Transcript';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0905/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
February 21, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon Negroponte pauses impatiently as President Bush interrupts his acceptance speech yet again by wandering in front of the cameras n a move that surprised the slow and feeble-minded alike, President Bush appointed diplomat John Negroponte as America’s first Director of National Intelligence this week, in an attempt to shore up the nation’s failing mental defenses.
“Now this may be a case of the pig callin’ the posy pink,” folkified Bush, our national leader and self-described folk hero. “But y’all is dumb as shit.”
Surprised and appalled by his own re-election, sources report Bush quickly decided something needed to be done about national intelligence, and the lucid and well-coordinated Negroponte was the obvious answer. Speaking in complete sentences and rarely attending to bodily itches with his house keys are said to be the strong suits that brought Negroponte to the ...
n a move that surprised the slow and feeble-minded alike, President Bush appointed diplomat John Negroponte as America’s first Director of National Intelligence this week, in an attempt to shore up the nation’s failing mental defenses.
“Now this may be a case of the pig callin’ the posy pink,” folkified Bush, our national leader and self-described folk hero. “But y’all is dumb as shit.”
Surprised and appalled by his own re-election, sources report Bush quickly decided something needed to be done about national intelligence, and the lucid and well-coordinated Negroponte was the obvious answer. Speaking in complete sentences and rarely attending to bodily itches with his house keys are said to be the strong suits that brought Negroponte to the president’s attention.
Negroponte, dressed in matching colors and with all button-holes and buttons lined up correctly on his vest, accepted the new position of Intelligence Czar graciously.
“It’s about time you dumbasses got your shit together,” announced the charitable-yet-firm Negroponte. “Though the fact that you all did something this smart frankly worries me. Is there a bucket of crap dangling over my head or something?”
According to the strangely-named Negroponte, whose last name does not mean “Black Dude” in Spanish or Italian, national intelligence has been going downhill for almost fifty years, pretty much ever since The Andy Griffith Show debuted in 1960. As a corrective measure, the new Intelligence Czar has called for the immediate canceling of all reality TV, switching all broadcasts of the Spice Channel to PBS, and outlawing country music. Whether these early remedies will be successful, however, remains to be seen since slack-jawed apathy remains so firmly rooted in the national character. Word on the street indicates that Negroponte may have his work cut out for him.
“What Russian royalty have to say about intelligence is a mystery to me,” sniped freelance quote-whore Dennis Murphy. “He should put on his big fuzzy hat and go back to Eskimoland.”
A surprising number of men on the street (and two dumb-looking women) seemed to confuse the concept of an Intelligence Czar and the famous Russian leaders of antiquity. Several half-educated men were convinced all the Czars had been murdered by the Bullshitiks in the Industrial Revolution. As a result, the commune has decided to refrain from using colorful or figurative language in the future, to avoid further misunderstanding and possible bloodshed.
Oppressed Bullshitiks, however, can find Negroponte at the White House during his office hours. the commune news is not opposed to efforts at raising national intelligence, far from it: as long as they don’t touch our goddamned pro wrestling. Ivana Folger-Balzac remains on the White House beat this week because no one has yet mustered the balls to wrestle the golden “White House Beat” baton back from her icy, dirty-fighting clutches. Stay tuned for further developments.
 | Bachmann Promises $2 Gas, Apocalyptic Wasteland During Presidency
New Apple Power Mac G5 to boost user feelings of superiority 20%
Jackson case may lead to conviction, say hopeful Internet gamblers
Bush takes hardline stance against major threat Cuba
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Officials to Celebrities: Please Get Out of New Orleans isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now. “We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.” The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation. Wisconsin Man Takes in Jazz Band he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn’t merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He’s taken in a whole jazz band. “I just wanted to do what I could,” Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. “So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed.” However, Martinson didn’t stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles. Merck: “Crazy-Ass Brazil Giving AIDS Drugs to People With No Money” Poison Probe Reveals 90% of Packaged Foods Actually Dog Food |
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 December 22, 2003
Volume 58Dear commune:
I’m an idiot. Let’s just get that out in the open right now so there’s no confusion on the subject. Judge me if you will, and egg my minivan if you must, I won’t put up any kind of lame, face-saving argument to the contrary. As you may have guessed, I completely forgot to send out thank-you notes for the Christmas presents I received last year. Totally slipped my mind. Didn’t even think of it until last Tuesday, when I was shopping for a Christmas bone for my dog and I suddenly realized I was the one in the doghouse. Figuratively.
My immediate urge was to correct this oversight, posthaste. I even had a box of thank-you notes and a pair of wavy border-cutting scissors in my cart when it dawned on me that Christmas, this year’s version, is less than a week away! So what should I do? Should I send out the belated thank-yous now, only to follow them in less than a week’s time with additional notes of gratitude for this year’s presents? What if they get the first one and think this means I didn’t get this year’s presents? What if they sent me the same thing two years in a row and they think I opened it early? That’s not very nice. Should I wait until after Christmas and send dual thank-you notes? Or would that just be rubbing it in their faces that I spent a whole year not appreciating their present? Or should I just consider last year’s gaffe water under the bridge and hope they didn’t notice? But then I might...
º Last Column: Volume 57 º more columns
Dear commune: I’m an idiot. Let’s just get that out in the open right now so there’s no confusion on the subject. Judge me if you will, and egg my minivan if you must, I won’t put up any kind of lame, face-saving argument to the contrary. As you may have guessed, I completely forgot to send out thank-you notes for the Christmas presents I received last year. Totally slipped my mind. Didn’t even think of it until last Tuesday, when I was shopping for a Christmas bone for my dog and I suddenly realized I was the one in the doghouse. Figuratively. My immediate urge was to correct this oversight, posthaste. I even had a box of thank-you notes and a pair of wavy border-cutting scissors in my cart when it dawned on me that Christmas, this year’s version, is less than a week away! So what should I do? Should I send out the belated thank-yous now, only to follow them in less than a week’s time with additional notes of gratitude for this year’s presents? What if they get the first one and think this means I didn’t get this year’s presents? What if they sent me the same thing two years in a row and they think I opened it early? That’s not very nice. Should I wait until after Christmas and send dual thank-you notes? Or would that just be rubbing it in their faces that I spent a whole year not appreciating their present? Or should I just consider last year’s gaffe water under the bridge and hope they didn’t notice? But then I might have to start pretending like I did send a note last year, should it come up, and that’s one web of lies that could prove sticky. Maybe I should just say piss on it and not send any notes this year either, rather than drawing attention to the fact I forgot to last year. I could even return to sender any notes I receive, like "What the hell is this? I don’t want your charity. Asshole." Yeah. It’s times like this I often ask myself that timeless question: WWtcD? What would the commune do? Larry Belfast Lower Bend, MODear Larry: Thank-you notes? Jesus Pete! No time to write, Larry, the commune has about 30 years of poor manners to catch up on and time is short! Last thing we want is to get crushed under a bus tomorrow and sent to Emily Post’s own personal version of hell. Quick, how do you spell bar mitzvah?
the commune Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any embarrassing misspellings or grammatical boners on the gravestones of your dearly departed. “the commune’s Gravestone Proofreading Service” was a woefully misbegotten brainstorm courtesy of commune stone-bleeder Gay Bagel, and we must stress that what goes around should come around specifically to him some time when the rest of us are all out of pistol range.º Last Column: Volume 57º more columns
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|  January 7, 2002
Handle with CareIt seems like every time you buy a box to mail something in these days, it comes with the phrase "Handle with Care" pre-printed on the side. And I have to wonder, am I paying extra for this? And even further so: what the hell's wrong with the postal service that they need special instructions not to beat the shit out of your package with baseball bats or feed it through the air intake of a jet engine? I want to print out a sticker that says "No, you know what? Don't handle with care. Drop kick the goddamn thing if you want to. It's not like I'm mailing eggs or something. Jesus Christ, what are you people, gorillas?" But to make this legible the sticker would have to be so big that mailing any package it would fit on would probably be cost prohibitive.
And you just know that if I went to all the trouble to get the sticker spell-checked and printed up and all that, it would practically guarantee that my mailman would make it his personal mission to fuck up my packages something good from then on. I already caught him backing his truck over a box of sausages I ordered once, and that was before I'd even done anything to piss the guy off. I haven't even had time to brainstorm on what he'd dream up to do to my poor packages should he ever get some serious motivation.
Personally, I'm not even sure if the Postal Service is an actual federal employer, or if they're just some kind of well-organized religious cult of some sort. The more I think about it, I'm...
º Last Column: Jeff's Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire º more columns
It seems like every time you buy a box to mail something in these days, it comes with the phrase "Handle with Care" pre-printed on the side. And I have to wonder, am I paying extra for this? And even further so: what the hell's wrong with the postal service that they need special instructions not to beat the shit out of your package with baseball bats or feed it through the air intake of a jet engine? I want to print out a sticker that says "No, you know what? Don't handle with care. Drop kick the goddamn thing if you want to. It's not like I'm mailing eggs or something. Jesus Christ, what are you people, gorillas?" But to make this legible the sticker would have to be so big that mailing any package it would fit on would probably be cost prohibitive.
And you just know that if I went to all the trouble to get the sticker spell-checked and printed up and all that, it would practically guarantee that my mailman would make it his personal mission to fuck up my packages something good from then on. I already caught him backing his truck over a box of sausages I ordered once, and that was before I'd even done anything to piss the guy off. I haven't even had time to brainstorm on what he'd dream up to do to my poor packages should he ever get some serious motivation.
Personally, I'm not even sure if the Postal Service is an actual federal employer, or if they're just some kind of well-organized religious cult of some sort. The more I think about it, I'm leaning toward door number two. I mean, what kind of federal agency delivers you a letter that's crumpled into the shape of an accordion, stained brown, and stamped with the words "Damaged in Handling at the Post Office"? No shit, huh? Thanks for the stamp, otherwise I might have thought freemasons were fucking with my mail. That's a real load-off.
Whatever their bizarre cult is all about, I think it definitely involves cloning. I've developed a theory over the years that there are only two actual people working at the post office, no matter where you go, and all of the other employees are just clones of these two. See if this sounds familiar: there's a lady there behind the counter who looks like she'd rather cough up a spiny blowfish than offer you any assistance. She has no answers to any of your questions, no explanation for how your package caught fire en-route or why it was doused with moose urine afterwards, and no discernable pulse. Her co-worker is a scary older version of Mr. Rogers who's suicidally chipper and possibly made out of an advanced plastic polymer. He's too eager to help you and you check in your back seat and under your car twice before you drive home.
If real federal agencies, like the police, were this inept, we'd all be long-dead by now. Have you ever had the postal service lose a package you mailed? They have you fill out a form describing what was in the box and where you mailed it from, which I think was only for my benefit as I'm fairly sure they just took it in the back room and threw it away. What am I supposed to think they're going to do with it? Rustle up the bloodhounds so they can catch the scent? Have a couple of slow-witted guys in hats drive the route all night with flashlights, scratching their heads? I should have made a copy of the form, just in case it got lost somewhere on the way to postal headquarters deep in the underwater city of Atlantis. I wouldn't trust these guys to get my trash to the curb.
I have it on good authority that this cult has been raising their funds by creating all of the junk mail in the world themselves. I mean, who the hell in their right mind tries to sell dog-sized hockey masks through the mail? I've received three offers for those this week alone. This definitely sounds like the work of an organization that thinks raising stamp prices one penny a year is a smarter idea than just jacking them up a dime and leaving us alone for a decade or so. I think I've got at least one of every one-cent stamp ever made, including the rare misprint of the Norman-Rockwell mailman toting an AK-47.
Any way you slice it, I'm done with the postal service. Those jokers have dropped my parcels in shit for the last time. I'm going to find some dumb little kid with a bike for all of my package and letter delivery needs in the future. Kids have two distinct advantages over the postal service when it comes to delivering things: they have no concept of geography and they think a quarter is a lot of money. So the next time you're on the highway and you see some flat-topped little moron with a package strapped to his back, pedaling his way toward Maryland, give a honk and a wave. Unless he's walking his bike or sitting under a tree or something, then give him a smack for Omar because I don't tolerate slacking on my dime and three nickels. Bricks out. º Last Column: Jeff's Nuts Roasting on an Open Fireº more columns
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Milestones1988: Future commune staff photographer Junior Bacon takes a photo that shocks the nation, until experts determine that the Sasquatch-looking thing in the picture is actually future commune editor Red Bagel.Now HiringExperienced Spelunker. Needed to find a way into Ned Nedmiller's office and see if there's anyone still alive in there. Ability to speak Dutch a plus.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Better Living Through Buggery | | 2. | Tom & Jerry: A Reunion | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Best-Kept Secret Recipes | | 4. | Undercover Exposé: My Three Days as a White Blood Cell | | 5. | Critics' Corner: Books and Shit | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 8/9/2004 Hola, America! That's about all the Spanish I know, but I wanted to give the column a little International flair this week. Why? Shit if I know.
Anyway, thanks for stopping by once again for all the reviews you care to peruse. Like the way I rhymed that? It may have taken half the morning, but the good shit doesn't just come squirting out the tube, as my grandfather always used to say. You have to cut the tube open with a utility knife and scrape out the insides with a spoon, FYI.
It probably wouldn't have taken so long, actually, but it took me a while to realize that nothing rhymes with orange. Weird, huh? But you didn't come here for the free poetry advice, unless you're insane, and if you are then say hi to my uncle Benny for me. As for the rest of you, how...
Hola, America! That's about all the Spanish I know, but I wanted to give the column a little International flair this week. Why? Shit if I know.
Anyway, thanks for stopping by once again for all the reviews you care to peruse. Like the way I rhymed that? It may have taken half the morning, but the good shit doesn't just come squirting out the tube, as my grandfather always used to say. You have to cut the tube open with a utility knife and scrape out the insides with a spoon, FYI.
It probably wouldn't have taken so long, actually, but it took me a while to realize that nothing rhymes with orange. Weird, huh? But you didn't come here for the free poetry advice, unless you're insane, and if you are then say hi to my uncle Benny for me. As for the rest of you, how about a big ole movie review sandwich? Have at it!
In Theaters Now:
Open Water
Jesus, when I heard Disney was going to be making a film about a shark family, I thought it was going to be a whole lot more fun-loving than this! I almost shit in my popcorn the first time the great whites showed up, and by almost I mean I did. I don't know how the rest of this movie turned out, but take it from me, if you're ever looking for a hard time, try to return a turded-on bucket of popcorn with a story about how that's the way it was when you got it.
The Porn Supremacy
So say you're porn magnate Larry Flint, only you don't know it because some religious asshole shot you in the back and you can't remember anything except you like porn. But now some other scuzzbucket has horned in on your racket and is using your name: The Porn Identity! You could probably stop him with some kind of legal battle, but nobody wants to take your case because they're put off by the way you breathe audibly through your mouth all the time. So it looks like you're going to have to count on the last resort of the disenfranchised: karate! Sound implausible? You bet your double-D's it is, but Philip Seymour Hoffman mouth-breathes some serious life into the role, and it's a kick to watch him run over people's toes in his wheelchair and ride that thing down stairs in Berlin and shit. Finally there's a movie that makes Europe look worth visiting (did you know they have porn? And guns?) while filling a serious void in terms of action roles for the handicapped.
The Village People
After the copycats raised the ante on Signs, the terrifying Tesla biopic from horrormeister M. Night Shyamandala (pronounced "Smith"), with last year's release of the Grateful Dead scarefest House of the Dead, some wondered if Shyamalama would ever again be able to raise the stakes in the horrifyingly-bad rock band movie genre he had created. Well, doubters should eat another little piece of Janis Joplin's heart out this week, since Shyamalanda has come back swinging the biggest stick of them all, jumping straight past the double-dog-dare and into Village People territory. This was no small gamble, considering the danger that the film's target audience may be too young to remember just how scary the Village People really were, and that the young ones might get kind of excited and start to dance when the soundtrack plays "Y.M.C.A." instead of trying to crawl up their own assholes in terror like the older members of the viewing audience will do reflexively.
But even the tragically accidental pregnancies of the Y Generation are sure to scream up a lung once they realize they're surrounded by the cop, the Indian and the gay biker who lost his bike. The scariest part of all is that Shyanmalingi won't let you even see the Village People until half-way through the movie, leaving your imagination to fill in the blanks about how hideous their sexually-ambiguous costumes might be. Some might complain that the film's "twist" ending isn't surprising enough, but I for one had no idea that the Village People and the Oak Ridge Boys were the same guys.
And that's all he wrote, America. It's more traditional to say "she wrote," but that would just be wrong. Tradition's usually pretty sexist that way. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed our time together, but don't hurt yourself rushing to register for the fall semester, because, well because this isn't a college course, stupid.   |