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March 7, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol After 60 years of living as an outlaw, Jesse Duke receives an executive pardon and limp handshake from the commander-in-chief. resident George W. Bush tossed around his executive meat Friday by pardoning 8 convicted criminals, most accused of money-related non-violent crimes and friends of the president or Republican contributors. Most notably among the pardoned was legendary bootlegger Jesse Duke, who once headed a Hazzard County illegal alcohol empire with County Commissioner J.D. Hogg.
Those who cheered the pardon contend Duke, an honest farmer and guardian to his nephews and niece, was merely trying to make his way the only way he knew how. Duke's once partner in crime, Jefferson Davis Hogg, had his crimes pardoned in 1972 by then-Governor Jimmy Carter and went on to become a well-respected County Commissioner and Hazzard bigwig. Duke, however, was labeled an outlaw, shepherd to lost sheep, and s...
resident George W. Bush tossed around his executive meat Friday by pardoning 8 convicted criminals, most accused of money-related non-violent crimes and friends of the president or Republican contributors. Most notably among the pardoned was legendary bootlegger Jesse Duke, who once headed a Hazzard County illegal alcohol empire with County Commissioner J.D. Hogg.
Those who cheered the pardon contend Duke, an honest farmer and guardian to his nephews and niece, was merely trying to make his way the only way he knew how. Duke's once partner in crime, Jefferson Davis Hogg, had his crimes pardoned in 1972 by then-Governor Jimmy Carter and went on to become a well-respected County Commissioner and Hazzard bigwig. Duke, however, was labeled an outlaw, shepherd to lost sheep, and sometimes hounded by local authorities for a personal feud between himself and Hogg. The president, moved by Duke's case, issued the order forgiving all the bootlegger's past transgressions so that he might live down the shame brought to the Duke name.
"I've had a time of it over all these here years," said Duke, after a brief meeting with the president. "Always lookin' over my shoulder, waiting for the 'coo-coo-coo' of the law. I spent so many years on the run the county mechanic is practically a member of our family. But I've always been an honest, god-fearin' man just trying to do right by his kin. At long last, I will no longer have to run from the police at the drop of a hat, climbin' into my nephews' car through its windows just to make my getaway. Thank you kindly, Mr. President."
Critics contend the president has overlooked more imperative cases where clemency could have really helped individuals, including those in which some evidence exists to prove men on death row may not be guilty, cases which would act like a lightning rod for the pro-death penalty president. The president answers critics by telling them to shut their fat gobs.
Shalom Staley, of the Smithsonian, an expert on Executive Privilege, compared the president's order to those of other famous leaders.
"George Bush certainly did a kind thing for convicted bootleggers and others who were once guilty of crimes we no longer consider quite violent," said Staley, weaving her fingers together in the most enamoring way, "but no doubt some believe the president could have done more with such a tool. President Clinton knew how to play the pardon, politically—waiting until his final days of office to deal out his most controversial pardons, including friends of the Democratic party. Bush, however, could have positively changed the lives of some suffering under unjust criminal charges right now. How many wrongly-accused police officers have been forced into the private detective business over the past thirty years? The president could help ease their shame in the same way. I'm not suggesting the ludicrous, like a pardon of all charges to alleged mob boss Tony Soprano. But we can remember the times a president has provided a happy ending to the troubles of individuals hounded by the law, like President Johnson's memorable pardon of accused murderer Richard Kimble, the escaped fugitive who was proven innocent."
The pardon of Duke, whether for crimes actually committed or not, remained of minor consequence to most of the nation. However, Duke's own Hazzard county residents celebrated his presidential clemency with favorite local pastimes, including shooting sticks of dynamite strapped to arrows as a "21-gun" salute, then retiring to a local tavern to hear country music superstar Charlie Rich perform. the commune news would also like a pardon—boy, those cabbages. Insignificant nobody Bludney Pludd earned our respect by stepping in to cover the Washington beat after the world-famous catfight last week when Lil Duncan and Ivana Folger-Balzac threw down over who covered the White House—both women are still in the hospital, listed in stable but sexy condition.
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Workplace shooting "had to happen on a Monday," says victim
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Conservative Woman Found he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called “right-wing woman” is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, she’s completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks. The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel. Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings he new television season barely underway, Fox executives are already lamenting the low ratings for their most calculated new show of the season, Desperate Alien Prison Escape. “We don’t understand it,” lamented stunned network executive Roger Bacon. “This show capitalized on every hot trend currently on TV. We even had swearing. It should have been the biggest hit of all time. Fuck.” Fox’s latest ratings hopeful follows the travails of Juk, a member of a secret alien invasion conspiracy who intentionally gets arrested for sleeping with a bored suburban housewife in order to help his cousin escape from jail, using a detailed map he had tattooed on his scrotum, which due to his alien anatomy is located where a human being’s eyelids would be. Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 March 3, 2003
Sign Me Up For a Frivolous LawsuitI heard on the news the other day, or at least the second-hand news, that some dude just won a major cash settlement after he broke into somebody's house and they were out of Oreos. He was robbin' the joint and in the course of carting out the widescreen TVs and Jacuzzis and whatnot, he worked up a powerful hunger for some milk and cookies. So he went to the fridge, poured himself a big glass of milk, and then realized his shit was up a creek because these cruel motherfuckers had gone on vacation without leaving behind any Oreos. Yeah, they had some other cookies, some Soft Batch bullshit, but this dude was hungry for Oreos. And he was just shit out of luck. So when the family got back, he sued their asses for mental anguish, and made out like a bandit. Which is funny because he kind of was a bandit anyway.
Now normally I'd be all over that action myself, since I could definitely use the money, but my uncle's diabetic and I don't want to be stuck without cookies in case that shit runs in the family. It's hard to spend those millions when you're planted ass-up in the ground.
But the other day there was something in the paper they use to wrap fish 'n chips about some other dude who was suing the power company because he got shitfaced one night, broke into the power plant, climbed up a transformer tower and was blown clean across the street when he touched the wires. I also heard that his smoking nuts were still stuck to the tower, but that part wasn't...
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I heard on the news the other day, or at least the second-hand news, that some dude just won a major cash settlement after he broke into somebody's house and they were out of Oreos. He was robbin' the joint and in the course of carting out the widescreen TVs and Jacuzzis and whatnot, he worked up a powerful hunger for some milk and cookies. So he went to the fridge, poured himself a big glass of milk, and then realized his shit was up a creek because these cruel motherfuckers had gone on vacation without leaving behind any Oreos. Yeah, they had some other cookies, some Soft Batch bullshit, but this dude was hungry for Oreos. And he was just shit out of luck. So when the family got back, he sued their asses for mental anguish, and made out like a bandit. Which is funny because he kind of was a bandit anyway.
Now normally I'd be all over that action myself, since I could definitely use the money, but my uncle's diabetic and I don't want to be stuck without cookies in case that shit runs in the family. It's hard to spend those millions when you're planted ass-up in the ground.
But the other day there was something in the paper they use to wrap fish 'n chips about some other dude who was suing the power company because he got shitfaced one night, broke into the power plant, climbed up a transformer tower and was blown clean across the street when he touched the wires. I also heard that his smoking nuts were still stuck to the tower, but that part wasn't in the paper. Probably to protect his family or whatever. Anyway, this dude was suing the power company because they didn't do a good enough job keeping him from blowing his ass up after he pulled the fence down with his truck, kicked down a door and scaled the 50-foot tower buck-naked.
Now after I checked in the mirror for electric burn marks, to make sure I wasn't the dude the papers were talking about, I began to hatch a plan. If this was all true it could be the best thing that ever happened, since it meant my whole life was one big, walking lawsuit. I could make a steady living off this shit without breaking a sweat. It'd be like getting paid to be Omar Bricks.
It's probably a good thing I never finished law school, because I obviously don't have a mind for this stuff. It never occurred to me to sue when I fell through the roof of that Taco bell when Dave and I climbed up there to make off with the bell. Sure, I still came out of the deal with a home décor rarity and conversation piece, but in retrospect I probably could have sued those thin-roof-having assholes out of a couple million, if not a lifetime supply of Nachos BellGrande.
It also never occurred to me that I've been shit on legally every time I've burned the hell out of my mouth on pizza, which is more times than I can count. I always knew those negligent fuckers where making the pizza too hot, but I never realized until now that I have legal recourse. I always just assumed it was my personal responsibility to wait until the cheese stopped bubbling before I bit into the damn thing. Hey, I'm not afraid to admit I was naïve.
But not any more. Now this game's got new rules, and a new name. It's called Omar Bricks Gets Paid For Shit That's Mostly His Fault. And I get the feeling I'm gong to kick some ass at this one. Now I just need to wait for some mishap to come knocking at the door.
Maybe I should buy some rollerskates. Bricks out. º Last Column: This is a Bitchin' Watchº more columns
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|  September 16, 2002
Wasted Away in MormonvilleNever again will Rok Finger get drunk off his sorry short-stack ass and wake up smack-dab in the middle of Utah, I can tell you that much.
For those who need the long story, I'm sending this column via the Infanet or whatever that commune clerk called it because I have yet to make it back from the big weekend Lee and I started last Wednesday. I had been a little down lately, as you can imagine—what with the recent divorce, being kicked out of that all-black neighborhood, finding out I was being stalked by a pro-wrestler, Camembert failing to walk despite my attempts at faith healing, and the world not coming to an end and all as I predicted. But Lee, ever the trooper, suggested we go out and have a boys' night out, no Camembert, no women, no underpants, and just let the whim and station wagon take us wherever it dared.
I would say Utah is where it dared, wherever the hell Utah is. I'm not sure of the name of the town so I have been referring to it as Mormonville, laughing my ass off and making the guilt-ridden townspeople blush a very peculiar shade of red.
Most of the weekend is forever lost in the cobwebs of my already-hobbled memory. Lee made mention of a girl in a wheelchair showing him a good time, but I suggested we more than likely went home, dressed Camembert up and made inappropriate advances toward him. Which sounds like a lot of fun, I hope one of us or a nosey neighbor taped it for us to enjoy when we get back. Until...
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Never again will Rok Finger get drunk off his sorry short-stack ass and wake up smack-dab in the middle of Utah, I can tell you that much.
For those who need the long story, I'm sending this column via the Infanet or whatever that commune clerk called it because I have yet to make it back from the big weekend Lee and I started last Wednesday. I had been a little down lately, as you can imagine—what with the recent divorce, being kicked out of that all-black neighborhood, finding out I was being stalked by a pro-wrestler, Camembert failing to walk despite my attempts at faith healing, and the world not coming to an end and all as I predicted. But Lee, ever the trooper, suggested we go out and have a boys' night out, no Camembert, no women, no underpants, and just let the whim and station wagon take us wherever it dared.
I would say Utah is where it dared, wherever the hell Utah is. I'm not sure of the name of the town so I have been referring to it as Mormonville, laughing my ass off and making the guilt-ridden townspeople blush a very peculiar shade of red.
Most of the weekend is forever lost in the cobwebs of my already-hobbled memory. Lee made mention of a girl in a wheelchair showing him a good time, but I suggested we more than likely went home, dressed Camembert up and made inappropriate advances toward him. Which sounds like a lot of fun, I hope one of us or a nosey neighbor taped it for us to enjoy when we get back. Until then, we're stuck in Mormonville and trying to fix the station wagon, nicknamed by Lee the Shagwagon, for our triumphant return home.
I suppose Mormonville is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here. Truthfully I was just being kind to say it was a nice place to visit, it stinks like Satan's crotch to visit. There is nothing to do here—nothing! I've got three suggestions for you, Mormonville: Gambling; prostitution; radical unlicensed cosmetic surgery. Any one of these might liven up this place a little more, but until then I suggest you change the name to Dullsville.
Oh. It appears the town is actually named Dullsville. One of the local residents informed me of that fact as I was dictating this column to the telegraph lady. I somehow managed to stay awake long enough to hear him out. Goody.
Suffice to say, if you get the chance to come out to Dullsville, kindly turn it down and then sting with a salty barb the nimrod who suggested it—I find, "No, thank you, you limp ballsack," to be particularly biting, at least when it's been directed at me.
Dullsville is even more boring than it's name. The town is in such a sub-catatonic state that crashing through the wall of the church at 8:35 a.m. on a Sunday morning doesn't even bring the police out. One old lady even passed the collection plate to Lee, who was asleep on the airbag. I did contribute a dollar though, and after that we all enjoyed some handsome potato salad and baked beans at the church outing.
The people are the friendliest people in the world, and when you've spent six hours driving west with a carful of drag queens, that's saying something. Even so, I don't plan on staying a minute longer than necessary in this above-ground tomb. Maybe the old Rok Finger would have found it nice here, but I'm the newly-liberated bachelor Rok Finger, and I like living high and fast, in the high and fast lane. I think me and Lee might make it a five-day weekend every weekend from now on.
Of course, I'll have to wait for Lee to wake up first. I would try to wake him, but he looks so comfortable, despite the imbedded windshield glass in his forehead. º Last Column: No One Will Believe We're All Doomedº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Speak when you are angry and you'll make the best speech you will ever regret. Speak when you are extremely angry and you'll really regret it—all stuttering and shit, like Porky Pig. And they'll just make fun of you. I know I would.”
-Ambruce FierceFortune 500 CookieStick it where the sun don't shine—that's the only way you'll be sure it glows in the dark. Does this look like medium rare to you? Take it back or there goes your tip. If you could ask God one question, don't make it, "Who farted?" Take a self-time out this week, but don't just waste it by yourself; extract the time itself from the timeline, so you can put it back wherever you want. Lucky legends this week: Sasquatch, the Jersey Devil, Abominable Snowman, and other Bigfoot rip-offs.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Desperate Housewives: This Decade's Max Headroom? | | 2. | On the Road With the Go West Reunion Tour | | 3. | Tits: One Man's Opinion | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Bathtub Tequila | | 5. | Critics' Corner: The Sailboat My Husband Painted | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 2/14/2005 A Time for DeadHis pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers.
"Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself...
His pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers. "Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself to be the exception. He would admit to friends, if he'd had any, that this was an unusual mission. He thought he'd seen it all during his eight year tenure as a highly in-demand rogue double agent, and one so skilled he'd been able to skip the normal single agent phase entirely, shooting straight into the big time of espionage. But he'd never been asked to shoot a deer before. At first he thought it must be a typo, written with a finger in the dust on his car's passenger side window, the way he always received his top secret missions. He'd figured Deer must be the last name of some deadly ex-KGB killing machine proficient in seventeen languages and Russo-karate. But over his customary eighteen months of research and preparation, Chowheim realized how wrong he had been. This was no ordinary deer. This deer had vital information about nukes in the former Eskimo stronghold of Newfoundland, Canada. A mole deer, a triple agent. A triple agent was the most impressive and complicated thing a spy could be, man or beast, since anyone who attempted to make the leap to quadruple agent invariably got confused and ended up just becoming the regular plain vanilla agent they were pretending to be during the course of their subterfuge times four. When Chowheim thought about it, he realized how perfect the plan had been. Nobody ever expects a deer. National reaction to the Disney film Bambi had been overwhelmingly positive ever since it opened on 1,517 screens in 1942. Entire generations of Americans were ripe for this con. And with a deer's average lifespan of 17.4 years in the Northern hemisphere, there was plenty of time for ample training and invaluable field experience before the serious missions began. Plus, he'd heard deer could run pretty fast. Always a handy trick to have up one's triple-agenting sleeve when in a pinch. Chowheim calibrated his sights again to compensate for the warming early-morning air. It was an odd place to expect a deer, a busy Manhattan street on a Tuesday morning, but double agents thrive on expecting the unexpected, and triple agents thrive on hiding in plain sight. This deer was good. Then he appeared. Casually, by a newspaper stand. Chowheim aimed for the pulmonary aortal junction, the surest kill spot for a male buck deer without rolling the dice on a dicey skull shot. Remembering his months spent in veterinary school and the additional weeks he spent wearing a deer suit in the wild, Chowheim aimed just below the junction, allowing gravity to do some of the bleeding work for him. It was no use taking his chances creating a geyser of deer blood squirting up into the air, which some passing Good Samaritan might catch in a bucket and use to save the rogue deer's life. Chowheim squeezed off a silent round without needing to look, and quickly broke down his rifle. After changing his clothes, facial hair and blood type on his way down the stairwell, Chowheim made a point of weaving into the crowd gathering around the ex-triple agent deer's now-lifeless body. Market research had shown that the last person anyone suspects is the guy with the handlebar mustache walking towards the action. Chowheim cast a quick glance streetward to admire his handiwork as he passed, then froze in his tracks like a glacier hitting a landmine. Something wasn't right. Something very wasn't right. Just then Chowheim realized he'd shot a dog. Not even a particularly deer-like dog, either, it was a French poodle. Shit, Chowheim thought. Then he thought shit again. After a quick calculation of odds, counter-odds, and evens in his head, he realized it was time for Plan D. Quadruple-agency, here he came. For more of this great story, buy Turner Volst's A Time for Dead   |