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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';
?> | 
Report: ’Osama’ Least Popular Name for American BabiesOctober 1, 2001 |
Baltimore, MD Assad The Unseen/AP A brave new world will greet Hitler Caldwell study conducted last week found that among the most popular names for baby boys right now are "John" and "Jason." Least popular: "Osama." Scientists say not only has the name "Osama" the least popular name for American parents naming baby boys, it has fallen drastically this year from last year’s ranking. "Last year’s study showed that Osama was number 435th. Not very popular at all as a name choice for American boys," said study author and researcher Dr. David Banner. "But this year… oh, jeez. Jesus pleasus. Lookit that. Waaay down there. I’m not even joking." Other unpopular names on the list included, "Shitdick," "The Buttinator," "Regis," "Flaccid," "Ball-lick," and perennial least-favorite, "Hitler." "This is no good," said ...
study conducted last week found that among the most popular names for baby boys right now are "John" and "Jason." Least popular: "Osama." Scientists say not only has the name "Osama" the least popular name for American parents naming baby boys, it has fallen drastically this year from last year’s ranking. "Last year’s study showed that Osama was number 435th. Not very popular at all as a name choice for American boys," said study author and researcher Dr. David Banner. "But this year… oh, jeez. Jesus pleasus. Lookit that. Waaay down there. I’m not even joking." Other unpopular names on the list included, "Shitdick," "The Buttinator," "Regis," "Flaccid," "Ball-lick," and perennial least-favorite, "Hitler." "This is no good," said expectant mother Sheila Caldwell. "I had ’Osama’ all picked out and now, well, I’m not using that. It’s a shame though. I had all these outfits with ’Osama’ embroidered in the left shoulder, like ’Laverne and Shirley.’""Not anymore," said Sheila’s husband Matt Caldwell. "What’s that other one you said? Hitler?" the commune News would like to point out that if you were really such a big shot, you wouldn’t need a fancy Beemer to look cool. A rusted-out El Camino with Taz mudflaps would do just fine. Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown is the long-dead Chicago Cubs Hall of Fame pitcher who seems to have returned from the great beyond, fancying himself a reporter and scaring the hell out of the rest of the staff, except Ramon Nootles, who’s never heard of baseball.
 | Rock and roll hits China
Documents reveal NASA sealing shuttle gas tank with oily rag
Iranian election results: 0 ballots for Cruise
Son of a bitch on American Idol really slaughtering "Sexual Healing"
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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. “Female Sex Patch” Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough |
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 August 5, 2002
Take a Tip From MeA common question crosses many people's minds when they're scowling at credit card slips in dimly lit restaurants or digging deep into their trouser pockets for a few bills, some spare change and a condom wrapper to toss onto the table at the completion of their meal. Why, for God's sake, did I just tip the guy who brought me the wrong drink twice and left a chunk of his dreadlock skirting around in the bottom of my bowl of soup? And come to think of it, why do I tip waiters at all? I certainly didn't tip the guy who unclogged my toilet with his bare hands or the guy who fucks my horrifically obese wife for me, so why get all philanthropic on somebody for carrying your Diet Slice fifteen feet? A perplexing question, indeed.
The custom of tipping dates back to the Roman Empire, a time that truly represented the Dark Ages of food service. Waiters were surly, sub-literate and prone to having volatile tempers. Diners frequently ate entire meals they did not order out of fear of raising the waiter's ire. The situation came to a head when the Roman Emperor Claudius requested a saltshaker when dining one night and the waiter responded by vomiting down the Emperor's shirt. Claudius had all of the waiters in Rome beheaded that night, and that incident inspired the Roman populace to spontaneously begin tipping their servers out of fear over what kind of scoundrels had been dug up to replace the executed national wait staff. At the time, a small bribe to one's server was...
º Last Column: The Trojan Horse º more columns
A common question crosses many people's minds when they're scowling at credit card slips in dimly lit restaurants or digging deep into their trouser pockets for a few bills, some spare change and a condom wrapper to toss onto the table at the completion of their meal. Why, for God's sake, did I just tip the guy who brought me the wrong drink twice and left a chunk of his dreadlock skirting around in the bottom of my bowl of soup? And come to think of it, why do I tip waiters at all? I certainly didn't tip the guy who unclogged my toilet with his bare hands or the guy who fucks my horrifically obese wife for me, so why get all philanthropic on somebody for carrying your Diet Slice fifteen feet? A perplexing question, indeed.
The custom of tipping dates back to the Roman Empire, a time that truly represented the Dark Ages of food service. Waiters were surly, sub-literate and prone to having volatile tempers. Diners frequently ate entire meals they did not order out of fear of raising the waiter's ire. The situation came to a head when the Roman Emperor Claudius requested a saltshaker when dining one night and the waiter responded by vomiting down the Emperor's shirt. Claudius had all of the waiters in Rome beheaded that night, and that incident inspired the Roman populace to spontaneously begin tipping their servers out of fear over what kind of scoundrels had been dug up to replace the executed national wait staff. At the time, a small bribe to one's server was seen as a favorable alternative to possibly losing an eye.
The practice of tipping died off with the decline of the Roman Empire, but was born anew in England during the Middle Ages. Feudal lords would throw bits of gold to the meanest-looking peasants as they traveled through the streets, as a way to decrease the chances of the unwashed masses rising up and overtaking their carriages, tearing them limb from feudal limb, and stretching their hides to make ceremonial drums. The feudal lords would tell stories of the cannibalistic masses to their children, who grew up to be generous tippers themselves.
By the 16th century, men of social status were so paranoid about offending potentially murderous members of the working class that they began the tradition of tipping servers in restaurants. The gratuity was meant as an invitation for the server to have a drink on them, and to alleviate their guilt over not having to work a day in their lives while everybody else toiled seven days a week, slaving over sow's ears trying to make silk purses and whatnot. But before long the servers became spoiled and every pub in the land featured a tip jar, inscribed with the words " To Insure Promptitude," which basically meant that if you don't cough up some cash for the jar, you're going to grow donkey antlers before you get a drink, bub. No one is sure where they got the word "promptitude" from, but the most popular theory is that, like today, many of the servers were college grad students who found their degrees useless in the harsh Medieval economy.
The custom of tipping most likely would have faded out on it's own during the Renaissance, were it not for the famed Italian wise-ass, Pico della Petrarka. Petrarka coined the joke " Q. What did the leper say to the prostitute? A. Keep the tip." which has had remarkable staying power over the ages. Many times when the practice of tipping might have faded into the annals of history naturally, it was brought back when someone had to explain the punch line of that joke, which made everyone feel guilty about not tipping and brought back the practice yet again.
Tipping spread to America in the early 1900's, when tourists picked up the custom in Europe and started practicing it back home just to show off how swanky their shit really was. However, like every other time the practice was introduced, servers soon came to expect the tips and actual food service quality remained as lousy and impersonal as ever.
With no fears of proletarian cannibalism to fuel the custom today, modern parents have turned to telling their children fairy tales about how tips guarantee quality service in the future and help out the unfortunates stuck in low-paying food service jobs. Especially bright children who question why we subsidize one unskilled, low-paying profession and not the hundreds of others are sent to bed without a tootsie pop.
Today, tipping has become so ingrained and expected that waiters consider tips below 15% not to be tips at all, but rather personal insults deserving of true contempt, and anyone anywhere who even has to smell the public expects to be tipped, including paperboys and librarians. Some economists argue that tipping provides cost-effective incentives for superior service, but in actual practice, most Americans are reminded of another joke:
 | A man walks into a restaurant, sits down, and orders a three-course meal. After a time, the waiter comes back with his soup, but the man notices that the waiter has his thumb stuck inside the bowl. Thinking it an odd but honest mistake, the man says nothing.
But when his pasta dish comes and the waiter's thumb is stuck into that, too, the man is truly baffled. Not wanting to cause a stir, he says nothing. He merely finishes his meal and waits for desert. Finally, his hot fudge brownie comes, and the waiter's thumb is stuck in that as well!
The man has had more than enough, and he demands to know why the waiter is sticking his thumb in all of the food. The waiter explains that he has a nasty fungal infection under his thumbnail, and that doctor's orders require him to keep his thumb in a warm and moist place at all times.
Exasperated, the man blurts out: "Well, why don't you just stick it up your ass, then?!?"
The waiter pauses briefly, then calmly replies:
"Where do you think I had it while I was in the kitchen?"
º Last Column: The Trojan Horse º more columns
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|  March 17, 2003
Hello Secret ValentineOkay, time to fess it up. Who is Boris secret Valentine?
Is Louis? Not thinking so. Louis only give Valentine to hooker and Louis mother.
Is Bagel Red? Still not thinking so. Bagel Red only love money and Sesame Streets.
So who is Valentine? Ah, is secret. From picture Boris think Valentine is small person, like Webster. This is Boris hunch. Secret Valentine is fun game, no?
Yes! Silly question.
Boris is smiling when secret Valentine send "peek-my-boo" cards. How nice to think of Boris! Cards says "Have you seen me?" with picture. Not yet, secret Valentine! But soon?
Speaking when honest, Boris think secret Valentine not so smart. Underneath picture is name, age, and how tall. Woops! Not so good secret when Boris know how tall is Valentine.
But still, who is complaining? Not Boris isn't. No, not that waste of time for Boris. Instead, Boris walking around town to find Valentine very much. Asking all persons who has four feet and six inch if they are Valentine. Is hard work! Not so many persons wanting to hold still for measuring stick. Boris understand, some persons in hurry or already has Valentine.
"But Boris!" is what you are thinking. "Do not you have fiancée person to be Valentine?" No, no, sorry friends. Fiancée person with leopard pants leave Boris goodbye. She go to meet friend John and do magic trick and never come back to Boris. Sad, yes. But as...
º Last Column: Boguslaw Sadowski º more columns
Okay, time to fess it up. Who is Boris secret Valentine?
Is Louis? Not thinking so. Louis only give Valentine to hooker and Louis mother.
Is Bagel Red? Still not thinking so. Bagel Red only love money and Sesame Streets.
So who is Valentine? Ah, is secret. From picture Boris think Valentine is small person, like Webster. This is Boris hunch. Secret Valentine is fun game, no?
Yes! Silly question.
Boris is smiling when secret Valentine send "peek-my-boo" cards. How nice to think of Boris! Cards says "Have you seen me?" with picture. Not yet, secret Valentine! But soon?
Speaking when honest, Boris think secret Valentine not so smart. Underneath picture is name, age, and how tall. Woops! Not so good secret when Boris know how tall is Valentine.
But still, who is complaining? Not Boris isn't. No, not that waste of time for Boris. Instead, Boris walking around town to find Valentine very much. Asking all persons who has four feet and six inch if they are Valentine. Is hard work! Not so many persons wanting to hold still for measuring stick. Boris understand, some persons in hurry or already has Valentine.
"But Boris!" is what you are thinking. "Do not you have fiancée person to be Valentine?" No, no, sorry friends. Fiancée person with leopard pants leave Boris goodbye. She go to meet friend John and do magic trick and never come back to Boris. Sad, yes. But as Louis say there is lots of bitches to go fishing.
And now Boris steps on sunshine because there is secret Valentine! Such happy thing, yes. Valentine in America is much better from Valentine in Homeland. In Homeland, man come to door with gun and yelling "I kill Boris who knock up sister of me!" What shit is that Valentine, no?
No, in Homeland is not romance like America. There is all about marry teenage girl just because she has little Boris in belly. Boring says Boris! In America is all about find love at end of magic movie with beautiful girl who is not talking too much. Yay for America!
So Boris is looking all over for Valentine, at hardware store and down by river. Louis say to look in dressing room at bikini store, lots of womens there. Louis also say look in yellow book for escort service, but Boris think secret Valentine is too small for driving. Maybe with blocks tied on shoes, or small size car which runs on battery. But blocks make it hard for Valentine to go dancing, so Boris think maybe she is not in yellow book. Maybe Boris will check at store for stilts!
Yes, yes. Boris will go to stilt store to buy stilts. Then when secret Valentine sees Boris on stilts, and secret Valentine is on stilts, it will be romance like magic circus movie. Yay for Boris idea! º Last Column: Boguslaw Sadowskiº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Ask not what your country can do for you; cuz trust me, you ain't gonna get shit that way.”
-John Fitzpatrick KentuckyFortune 500 CookieOrganization is the key to surviving life's travails. Try sorting your problems large to small, then run like hell. Nobody can stand your face, voice or odor, but on the upside, everyone likes your car. This week's lucky ways to die: hanging plus drowning, three-year diarrhea, shop 'til you drop, the summertime blues.
Try again later.Top Bad Gift CDs| 1. | N*Synch Unplugged | | 2. | Songs to Masturbate To | | 3. | Taco: B-Sides and Rarities | | 4. | Uncle Dave's Most Racist BBQ Stories | | 5. | Elvis Chews! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Jonas J. Cullogan 5/23/2005 The Prunes of IgnominyLuke walked up the road in his one-dollar suit, which came with shoes but he had to pay extra for the socks. The right sock was fourteen cents, but the left cost a little more since they sewed a penny into the heel for good luck, which made them very uncomfortable for walking. As a result, Luke wasn't wearing the socks, but he kept them stuffed into his seven-cent underwear for impressive effect.
The suit didn't come with a shirt, a fact that Luke wished he had noticed before he'd given his old shirt to an elephant to use as a handkerchief. His old pants, those were gone too since they'd been made into a makeshift diaper for an incontinent horse ten miles back, but Luke had no worries about that since the new pants were just fine.
Granted, a dollar was a lot of money...
Luke walked up the road in his one-dollar suit, which came with shoes but he had to pay extra for the socks. The right sock was fourteen cents, but the left cost a little more since they sewed a penny into the heel for good luck, which made them very uncomfortable for walking. As a result, Luke wasn't wearing the socks, but he kept them stuffed into his seven-cent underwear for impressive effect. The suit didn't come with a shirt, a fact that Luke wished he had noticed before he'd given his old shirt to an elephant to use as a handkerchief. His old pants, those were gone too since they'd been made into a makeshift diaper for an incontinent horse ten miles back, but Luke had no worries about that since the new pants were just fine. Granted, a dollar was a lot of money back then, I don't want you thinking this was the kind of suit you could buy for a dollar today, assuming you could even do that. I don't think anyone would want to wear that kind of suit; it would probably be made of Mylar and smell like Mexico. But this was way before inflation. Luke Nood was finally out of jail, where he'd spent seven months for accidentally swallowing a rich man's nickel in a bar melee, and now he was walking back to Oklahoma to help his family pack up the farm and all move to California where the streets were paved with gold and the trees were full of delicious oranges that were also made of gold. As a result, Luke had heard that Californians were wealthy but incredibly thirsty for orange juice, thanks to all their solid gold oranges being unjuiceable. That's when Luke had the bright idea to load up the Nood family, the dog, and several jugs of orange juice, and set out to make their fortune. The only inconvenient part was that Luke had been sent to a jail in Arizona, so he had to walk all the way back to Oklahoma so he could ride to the promised land of California with the rest of the family. By the time he got to Oklahoma, Luke's suit looked like a used condom that had been through the Holocaust, which allowed him to blend right in to Oklahoma. There they were, the whole Nood family: Grandma Nood, Granduncle Donner, Eustum, Farbney, the triplets. And a whole other lot of folks Luke didn't recognize, on account of the time he'd been gone and their forgettable nature. There they all were, piled into the Nood family's truck, stacked high like Nazi turtles or the Beverly Hillbillies before such a thing even existed. Way up on the very top, like the angel on a Christmas tree, sat Great-Grandma Nood, surveying the scene from her queenly perch and running interference for low-flying birds. If there was trouble on the road, Great-Grandma Nood would surely see it coming, and likely catch the brunt of it. Luke quickly learned that the family was pissed off to see him, since they had all been waiting in the truck with the engine running for five long months, waiting for Luke to get out of jail, thanks to the family calendar being hocked for gum money at some point. As a result, the Noods had burned through all their gas money just idling the truck, and now had exactly four cents to get them to California. "Don't worry, everybody," Luke reassured the already-haggard clan with a sly grin. "I made a lot of money peddling my ass in jail." For more of this great story, buy Jonas J. Cullogan's salt of the earth tale The Prunes of Ignominy   |
the commune publishes as the news happens. Enjoy these random selections from days gone by, and refresh for more. Copyright 2026 the commune. All rights reserved, no whites served. Reproduction in hole or in parts without permission is likely to piss off her dad big time.
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