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Former CIA Director Doesn’t Know SportsApril 30, 2007 |
Washington, D.C. Snapper McGee Former CIA Director George Tenet admits he doesn’t know dick about sports in his new book. In an old White House photo, Tenet tries to bluff his way through a description of a "goal and two assists" he saw in a televised game of checkers.  
Like a lot of women out there, this reporter only watches sports for the unspoken erotic tension between the players and the frequent male touching. But honey, at least I watch. Which leaves straight boys like George Tenet...
h, baby, there’s being a girl and then there’s being a girl—know what I’m saying? Take as an example former CIA Director George Tenet, the man who complains in his new book At the Center of the Storm that he became a poster boy for the fuck-up in Iraq and that his comment "It’s a Slam Dunk, Mr. President," was used as grounds for the Iraqi invasion and taken out of context. Now it turns out that, according to Tenet’s new book, the problem is trying to use sports terminology in the workplace without knowing shit about sports.
Like a lot of women out there, this reporter only watches sports for the unspoken erotic tension between the players and the frequent male touching. But honey, at least I watch. Which leaves straight boys like George Tenet trying to fumble (another sports term) around the office to describe international situations in a language the president can understand. If he don’t know sports and the president don’t know international politics, they might as well be speaking Swahili and German to each other, sweetie.
In Tenet’s new book, the freshest alibi that testifies he’s someone else who didn’t do shit to cause the unpopular war in Iraq, the former CIA Director tells how he responded to the president’s question about the intelligence that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction (WMD is so 2003 now), to which Tenet replied with the damned expression "Slam Dunk." But Tenet says the case against him is not so clear.
"The president likes to receive all of his briefings in language that the public can understand," Tenet wrote of his former boss and frequent sly critic. "This makes it easier for the razor-sharp mind of President Bush to prepare information for his press conferences—with so many things on his plate like writing a balanced budget, researching the privatization of health care, and his late-night situation meetings, sports terminology can get the point home to the American people without the president complicating the matter with the convoluted jargon familiar to President Bush, but strange to our ears.
"In this matter, I incorrectly clarified the intelligence case for Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction as a ’Slam Dunk.’ I have very rarely ever seen a football game, so using this terminology was my mistake. I should have gone with ’home run,’ which is at least familiar to me because of dating slang. I did not mean that the ball was knocked out of the park. I meant that that thing happens where—what’s the term for when a player pretends to throw the ball, but you’re not sure he did, and any player could have or not have the ball? A ’clusterfuck,’ maybe? Whatever that thing is, that’s what I meant to say. Boy, I must have really messed up my sports lingo, though."
Tenet’s book further criticizes politicians out there, including the White House, for making him the scapegoat for the war because of the "Slam Dunk" comment. When the intelligence for Iraq was revealed as faulty, detractors pointed to Tenet as the face for the flawed intelligence system and put the burden on him and his people for a war that many accusers say was initiated only by the president’s interests. Tenet goes on to describe the process as "just plain mean."
Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice was uncharacteristically frank in her response to Tenet’s charges in her response with Wolf Blitzer on CNN Sunday.
"George screwed the pooch and he knows it," said Rice. "That’s not a sports term, so maybe I won’t have to translate it for him. We should send him to the penalty box for his knocking us over it all, but he wouldn’t know where the fuck it is anyway." the commune news is way familiar with sports terminology, and frequently likes to invent our own to liven things up. By the way, did you see the Cubs totally pontoon that short-sheet into the baker’s dozen last week? Total bullshit. Correspondent Stigmata Spent is also total bullshit, if you’re looking for a genuine lady to go out clubbing with, but she knows her football, and she’s more fun to talk to.
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Today the 10-year anniversary of the death of alterna-rock
Florida declared disaster area months before hurricane hits
SUVs hazardous to kids, but still a lot of bad points about SUVs
Sepracor sleep drug packs power of 600 history teachers
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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. Conditions at Walter Reed Upgraded to “Nightmarishly Clive Barker-esque” Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns |
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 October 14, 2002
Susan Be Anachronism: The Dollar Coin StoryLike many of you, I've attempted to mail death threats to various celebrity personalities only to get to the post office and find the desks closed. Without human help, like most of us, I resort to these mechanical stamp-dispensing machines, and like most of us, with only large bills I have to buy stamps with a twenty and what do I get in return? I handful of gold Sacagawea coins. And as is no doubt a common occurrence, I immediately think I've been swindled with Showbiz Pizza Place tokens and trash the entire post office, leading police on a manhunt for several days until things cool down. But it doesn't solve the big question: What's with these dollar coins?
Explaining how and why they get into the vending machines would be a long and arduous process, and I would be stepping on the toes of a Gerald Rivera Fox News special that's currently being developed. Instead, I'll give a quick history of the dollar bill in coin form.
Anyone with piddling knowledge of U.S. history can tell you of the great bout of floods in the west during the late 1800s, and I just have. Early settlers shared the sentiment of our forefathers that dollar coins were a tool of the monarchy for keeping us in line. You could hear rich people coming a mile away by the clang-clang in their pants and that's how the king knew who to grab and shake until all the money came out. Americans, particularly the rich white ones who were making the laws, thought paper dollars were a great way...
º Last Column: You've Got to be Shitting Me: The Story of the Sundial
º more columns
Like many of you, I've attempted to mail death threats to various celebrity personalities only to get to the post office and find the desks closed. Without human help, like most of us, I resort to these mechanical stamp-dispensing machines, and like most of us, with only large bills I have to buy stamps with a twenty and what do I get in return? I handful of gold Sacagawea coins. And as is no doubt a common occurrence, I immediately think I've been swindled with Showbiz Pizza Place tokens and trash the entire post office, leading police on a manhunt for several days until things cool down. But it doesn't solve the big question: What's with these dollar coins?
Explaining how and why they get into the vending machines would be a long and arduous process, and I would be stepping on the toes of a Gerald Rivera Fox News special that's currently being developed. Instead, I'll give a quick history of the dollar bill in coin form.
Anyone with piddling knowledge of U.S. history can tell you of the great bout of floods in the west during the late 1800s, and I just have. Early settlers shared the sentiment of our forefathers that dollar coins were a tool of the monarchy for keeping us in line. You could hear rich people coming a mile away by the clang-clang in their pants and that's how the king knew who to grab and shake until all the money came out. Americans, particularly the rich white ones who were making the laws, thought paper dollars were a great way to keep it quiet who had money and who didn't. And just so they could hear the poor coming, everything less than a dollar was made in coin form. Originally all coins were made from gold and really ended up fucking up a good system since a penny cost $3 worth of gold to make when they first started. The freshman American government decided to switch to low-cost metal alloys for coins of various worth before they started to lose their asses.
However, because of the great Western floods, any settlers of the West and tourists would soon find their clothes soaked and their money soiled. The great Western floods brought about a lot of adaptions in American products, particularly the highwater pants I wore in my youth, but we'll save that for future columns and possible therapy sessions. One of the biggest adaptions was the return of the dollar coin.
Originally only available in the west or localized flood areas, the dollar coin became novel because you could bite it and pretend to know a lot about money, even if you were a dipshit. Especially in the west, it was also cooler to throw a coin on the bar and buy a beer for the entire town, even though sometimes the bartender wouldn't know about the existence of dollar coins and assumed you were trying to scam him with a nickel, resulting in frequent ass-beatings and bar-bannings. But the dollar coin maintained what we could call "cult status" in America for a number of years, particularly among a sect of Reverend Moon followers in the 1970s known as the "coinies."
Sacagawea herself, if you're curious, was not a real Native American woman, but based on an Asian girl Franklin Mint founder Ben Franklin was sleeping with. For the design, and name, a group of Franklin Mint pranksters picked an easy Indian girl rumored to have slept with all travelers going west, including Lewis and Clark, and her name was Gawea. "Sack-a-Gawea for me!" was a popular cry among frontiersman of the day and made for a great inside joke for clever people who got it.
In today's paper and plastic economy, dollar coins aren't very practical and can't be doodled on or have phone numbers printed on them, which is all that people use a dollar bill for these days anyway, so the dollar coin is still produced for coin-collecting dweebs and old people who love shiny things. Typically they're so small in number most banks carry few of them, and prefer to deal in paper money since most bankers grew up with a Monopoly obsession, but dollar coins are still around, if you look hard enough, and you come across tons of them if you ever make the mistake of going to the post office with nothing less than a twenty dollar bill. º Last Column: You've Got to be Shitting Me: The Story of the Sundialº more columns
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|  April 1, 2002
You: Tall, Gorgeous Blonde. Me: Abusive Drunken BigotI usually don't do this kind of thing. Usually I meet women through my work as a kickboxer or at family reunions. Don't get the wrong idea, I mean my brothers date some kick-ass girls and they all want a piece of Dooley Finster, I would never date a woman who was related by blood unless she was a cousin or something 'cause I ain't having no fucked-up Rain Man kids. But I saw you at the traffic accident and felt something cosmic between us.
You felt it, too, didn't you? You were studying me pretty close while I was doing that breathalizer test. I caught a look at your fine ass and I thought I was going to pass out, and it wasn't from the .13 blood alcohol level.
I was putting on a big show just for you, darling, once I knew you were in the audience. If you hadn't been there, maybe I wouldn't have called those cops pussies and kicked out the window of the patrol car. Hell, they liked to never get the cuffs on me, I was floating like I was on fucking air or something. All because of you.
Don't pretend you weren't flirting with me, too, flipping your hair back, adjusting your blouse. I don't have the subtlety you do, maybe, the best I could manage was to punch my whining girlfriend in the lip and expose myself to the crowd. I could have just winked or something, you probably would have known. But I got the feeling you knew it was just for you, babe.
My racist remarks caught that black cop off guard, I could tell, and maybe...
º Last Column: At Least Your Last Name's Not Fagerbakke
º more columns
I usually don't do this kind of thing. Usually I meet women through my work as a kickboxer or at family reunions. Don't get the wrong idea, I mean my brothers date some kick-ass girls and they all want a piece of Dooley Finster, I would never date a woman who was related by blood unless she was a cousin or something 'cause I ain't having no fucked-up Rain Man kids. But I saw you at the traffic accident and felt something cosmic between us.
You felt it, too, didn't you? You were studying me pretty close while I was doing that breathalizer test. I caught a look at your fine ass and I thought I was going to pass out, and it wasn't from the .13 blood alcohol level.
I was putting on a big show just for you, darling, once I knew you were in the audience. If you hadn't been there, maybe I wouldn't have called those cops pussies and kicked out the window of the patrol car. Hell, they liked to never get the cuffs on me, I was floating like I was on fucking air or something. All because of you.
Don't pretend you weren't flirting with me, too, flipping your hair back, adjusting your blouse. I don't have the subtlety you do, maybe, the best I could manage was to punch my whining girlfriend in the lip and expose myself to the crowd. I could have just winked or something, you probably would have known. But I got the feeling you knew it was just for you, babe.
My racist remarks caught that black cop off guard, I could tell, and maybe you as well. But that's not who I am. I talk a good game, but that's only who I am when I'm out in public and running a good buzz. There's a lot of times I feel vulnerable and fragile, like when the black cop was hitting me in the ribs with his baton. I want to share that side of me with you.
So anyway, I suppose you know what I'm getting at. You were the tall, gorgeous blonde in the crowd. I was the abusive foul-mouthed bigot being wrestled to the ground and hog-tied with plastic binders. If I hadn't been carted away and charged with D.U.I., assault and battery and attacking a police officer I would have asked for your number, or maybe to go out and get coffee sometime. If you're reading this, call the commune or e-mail them or something and they'll put me in touch with you. I can't wait to get your number!
I hope you're ready for the most special date of your life. I'd like to take your hand in mine and walk through the street, just getting lost in the shards of broken glass from where my car hit that cop cruiser. Maybe take you out to dinner at the nicest bar in town, provided you can cover me until my lottery ticket pays off. I'll bring along my laundry, we'll make a day out of it. º Last Column: At Least Your Last Name's Not Fagerbakkeº more columns
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Milestones1987: A practical joke backfires, resulting in Roland McShyster being put in charge of Orion Pictures.Now HiringNeighbor. Must be unpredictably silly and capable of conjuring up outlandish schemes week after week. Applicant will be judged based on appeal to uncreative mass audiences and spin-off potential. Non-white, homosexual a plus.Best Shakespeare Film Adaptions| 1. | Romeo and Julian | | 2. | Hamlet Strikes Back | | 3. | A Midsummer Night's Rave | | 4. | Tougher than Leather | | 5. | Richard III: Richard Goes to Hell | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 2/17/2003 Howdy, America, and greetings from the land of prepaid calling cards. What could be more convenient than dialing eight thousand digits before making a long distance call? Nothing could! So why don't we all run out and buy an MCI prepaid calling card today? What's that? Well, you do whatever the hell you want; I'm buying a prepaid calling card. When your phone bill comes in the mail and you've got to drive around all night trying to find a place to buy stamps to mail it back in, we'll see who's laughing. Asshole.
Meanwhile, we're here taking a look at the best Hollywood has to offer. But before you say anything too harsh, remember that Hollywood has had a drinking problem for a while now and it's doing the best it can. So let's take a look at what they heaved behind our...
Howdy, America, and greetings from the land of prepaid calling cards. What could be more convenient than dialing eight thousand digits before making a long distance call? Nothing could! So why don't we all run out and buy an MCI prepaid calling card today? What's that? Well, you do whatever the hell you want; I'm buying a prepaid calling card. When your phone bill comes in the mail and you've got to drive around all night trying to find a place to buy stamps to mail it back in, we'll see who's laughing. Asshole.
Meanwhile, we're here taking a look at the best Hollywood has to offer. But before you say anything too harsh, remember that Hollywood has had a drinking problem for a while now and it's doing the best it can. So let's take a look at what they heaved behind our azaleas this week:
In Theaters
Cherdevil
The big hoopla this week is obviously about the release of this highly-anticipated comic book geek-out that fans have been waiting for since before they had a favorite brand of pimple cream. The concept is simple enough: Ben "Silver Spoons" Affleck plays a man who's a drag-queening Cher impersonator by day, camel-toed spandex superhero by night. Actually, I think drag queens mostly operate at night, too, so maybe it's the other way around: superhero by day, Cher look-alike by night. This poses an obvious problem, since most criminals operate by night as well, I guess because they're either sleeping or running Fortune 500 companies during the day. So while Affleck's out believing in life after love on the club scene all night, old ladies are getting mugged left and right and somebody's stealing all the dirt from under New York City or whatever. And during the day, all there is to do is catch tax cheats and people that jaywalk and don't tip parking valets. So everybody basically hates the guy, plus his spandex get-up leaves far too little to the imagination, so the parents' groups and gay pride gangs are all after his ass all the time. Luckily he has the fabulous club life to escape to at night, where he's a star and he doesn't have to listen to people complain about how he's the only superhero who doesn't validate parking.
How to Lose a Gut in 10 Days
Another film in the growing trend of weight-loss and diet movies that are becoming increasingly popular these days. While I can't argue against the fact that the market is there, since Americans are so fat the Rocky Mountains keep getting taller every year, I'm not sure how many more of these movies I can sit through. After the early successes of such films as The Dead Zone Diet and You've Got to Fight For Your Right to Eat Right For Your Blood Type, Hollywood has really gone hog wild with a shitty stream of knock-offs: The Schwarzenegger All-Beef Diet, My Big Fat Gross Ass, Steven Seagal Kicks the Shit Out of Carbohydrates andThe Eat Like Ringo Starr in Caveman Diet. This one is more of the same. Matthew McConaughey does a good job acting fat, and then acting not-fat, but I still think he'll lose out on the fat/not-fat Oscar to Rush Limbaugh, who's been making acting fat look effortless for years.
The Jungle Book 2
The gut-wrenching sequel to Upton Sinclair's tell-all book about the meatpacking industry in Chicago is a surprise release from Disney this year. One would think the public outcry after the first film (a harrowing montage of loveable bears, tigers and baboobs being processed into bologna sandwiches) would have scared the company off. Or at least would have convinced them to sell-out on the sequel, making it all about singing roast beefs and the happy times at the meatpacking plant. But you've got to hand it to that giant mouse; he's gone straight for the jugular again with another melee of carnage that'll turn your stool pink. You have to wonder about the product tie-in deals for this movie, though, are kids really going to be clamoring for the McBaloo burger once they realize they're chewing on some loveable singing bear's ass? And as good as the film is, the title really is pretty unforgivably heavy-handed. I hate when they have to beat us over the head with the fact that a movie is adapted from a book, but I guess it's only fair since nobody reads anymore. I hear watching movies that are inspired by books counts for college credits these days, which I think is an improvement on the old system.
Well, that's all they gave us to work with this time around, unless they snuck another teen slasher movie by while nobody was manning the store. We'll be back in two more weeks, just as long as Hollywood keeps pumping out the movies the way Shakey's turns out the pizza: hot 'n nasty.    |
