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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='2005/0328/';
$dunkintitle='Highway to Hell';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0822/';
$fingertitle='To Hell With This Desk';
$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='2005/0704/';
$police='2005/0822/';
$polio='2005/0822/';
$poliotitle='WEASELS-B-GON';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds';
$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';
?> | 
September 26, 2005 |
Elderly Texans line up to tell stories about the unbelievable hurricanes of yore n the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South.
“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.”
“Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in...
n the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South.
“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.”
“Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.”
“And they call this a hurricane,” sniffed Elmer Controse, 76, of Wicker Falls, who had his entire house flattened by Hurricane Katrina. “Blew my house down, big whup. This is nothing. Back in ’56, Hurricane Chuck blew my house down, then re-arranged it and blew it back up again so that everything was inside-out. All my pictures were hanging on the outside of the house, and my toilet and stove were on the outside, it was like some kind of crazy doll house. But inside, everything was all aluminum siding. Creepy as hell. Now that was a hurricane.”
“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth shit,” opined Daisy Altamont, 91, of Baton Rouge, who had her wedding ring blown up a cat’s ass by Hurricane Beauregard in 1949. “Get back to me after we’ve had the kind of hurricane that ends with you giving an enema to a housecat. But a word to the wise: if that does happen, I’d advise against telling anyone what you did. Apparently it’s illegal to enemize a cat.”
the commune was unable to verify the legal status of giving a cat an enema, but we did discover that it clearly violates American Show Cat Association guidelines, as it can apparently harm a cat’s self-image and lead to problems with bulimia.
Thus far, a consensus of scientists have been unable to confirm the elderly’s claims of mega-hurricanes from the past, arguing instead that hurricanes have been at about the same strength throughout history, and incidentally, the scale of hurricane categories has always gone from one to five, no higher.
“Bullshit,” disagreed longtime Hollywood, Florida, resident Angus Roper, 95, in spite of not having heard the previous paragraph. “When I was a boy, Hurricane Delphina blew my dog inside-out like a sock, right before it blew my grandmother through an oak tree. Not the branches, mind you, the trunk. Granny was never the same after that, chirping like a chipmunk whenever the barometer dropped. You don’t see hurricanes like that anymore.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Cape Hatteras, North Carolina’s Archie Slobertson, apparently displaying some kind of cross-state old-person telepathy. “Hurricane Dandy, now that was a… well, a dandy. Back then the hurricanes didn’t blow sideways like they do now. Nope, hurricane blew straight down. Pushed my whole town underground, no foolin’. Don’t believe me? Look on a map for North Jigglebarrow, you won’t find it! Better get yourself a shovel if you want to visit. Still folks livin’ there from what I hear tell. Yep.” the commune news doesn’t doubt that hurricanes were more powerful back in the good old days, but we do have to question the claims of how much faster computers were back then. Long-dead commune reporter Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown was given this assignment after the stench of death given off by the elderly proved to be too much for any of the commune’s younger reporters to handle.
 | Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around
Today the 10-year anniversary of the death of alterna-rock
Study: Cel fon txt msging on riz :oP
Kutztown 13 loses gang war to Flora & Faunae Club
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Chief Justice Rehnquist: Dead as Disco at 80 he world sighed a mournful “Oh” upon hearing of the death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who led the U.S. Supreme Court for 19 years and formed the holy conservative trinity of the court. Rehnquist is the second justice to retire from the Supreme Court this year, and never to be outdone, Rehnquist chose the more dramatic exit method of death in office.
The Chief Justice announced his diagnosis of thyroid cancer last year and his refusal to retire from the Supreme Court, angering liberals and conservatives alike by his reluctance to make the playing field more interesting. Never one to quit, Rehnquist had suffered greatly in recent months from radiation for his cancer treatment and a tracheotomy, actually performed by an over-anxious boyscout on a visit to the nation’s capitol. Kansas City Royals Win Little League World Series n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title. Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact. “Willie gave it a hell of an effort,” praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.” Alec Baldwin Records Devastating Voice Mail Message for Shooter Sony’s Poorly Timed “PS3 Price Massacre” Backfires |
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 December 13, 2004
Man, That Clown Kicked My AssTalk about your shitty weekends. I've heard of Tijuana coke mule vacations that went better than this. What can go wrong at a parade, right? Try everything. It all started out well enough. Nice day, sun's out, chicks in majorette outfits, right? Sweet. Couple of brewskies with the guys, taking in the sights. Families are out with their kids, which is always a sweet reminder that you're not saddled with any little snot goblins of your own. Old people there too, reminding you how great it is not to be them. Could have been the perfect day. Then this fucking clown shows up and it all goes to hell. For the record: Sure, I was making fun of his poofy pink hair and all that, but ain't those dudes supposed to be all jolly and shit? Not this guy. As soon as I started clowning on his tired purple dot pants, that freakshow flew into a berserk clown rage. That dude went all postal clown on my ass. I'm telling you, this was one clown who wasn't secure in his sexuality. It's not like I've never had my ass kicked before. Meter maids, mailmen, Tommy Frithy's auntie May—they all know how to bring it. But this clown was something different. Normally when I'm getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit. I'd be at the pearly...
º Last Column: All She Wants to Do is Dance º more columns
Talk about your shitty weekends. I've heard of Tijuana coke mule vacations that went better than this. What can go wrong at a parade, right? Try everything. It all started out well enough. Nice day, sun's out, chicks in majorette outfits, right? Sweet. Couple of brewskies with the guys, taking in the sights. Families are out with their kids, which is always a sweet reminder that you're not saddled with any little snot goblins of your own. Old people there too, reminding you how great it is not to be them. Could have been the perfect day. Then this fucking clown shows up and it all goes to hell. For the record: Sure, I was making fun of his poofy pink hair and all that, but ain't those dudes supposed to be all jolly and shit? Not this guy. As soon as I started clowning on his tired purple dot pants, that freakshow flew into a berserk clown rage. That dude went all postal clown on my ass. I'm telling you, this was one clown who wasn't secure in his sexuality. It's not like I've never had my ass kicked before. Meter maids, mailmen, Tommy Frithy's auntie May—they all know how to bring it. But this clown was something different. Normally when I'm getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit. I'd be at the pearly gates right now, explaining to Saint Peter why I had a big floppy shoe stuck up my ass if it weren't for that ice cream truck that rolled up on Mr. Clown right as he was about to take his belt off. Thank God that clown had a weakness for Dilly bars, that's all I can say. While he was two-fisting those motherfuckers like some kind of refugee fresh out of an ice creamless desert, I managed to drag my broken ass over to an open manhole and flop down inside. By the time he realized where I'd gone it was too late—no way was he going to risk getting his big pink afro-wig wet down in that sewer. And by the way, thanks for standing up for me, guys. I don't know what was worse, having a big overweight clown miming anal intercourse with my limp, bleeding body in the middle of the street, or having to hear you guys cracking up and making catcalls the whole time. I might have even forgiven that indignity if you guys hadn't taken the clown out for drinks afterwards. I guess I know what kind of friends I've got. The "for shit" variety. And to add insult to injury and total humiliation, now the city's suing my ass for ruining the parade. And I keep getting letters from some jackass who says his kid is afraid of clowns now, thanks to me. But you won't believe the fucking topper of them all. That fucking clown himself sent me a scary-assed postcard the other day, with a menacing picture of himself on the front and a smear of my own blood on the back. When I find out which one of you jokers gave him my address, you're gonna taste my cane, bitch. º Last Column: All She Wants to Do is Danceº more columns
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|  October 18, 2004
I Must Repress My Memories AgainSir, let the truth ring out from mountaintop to mountaintop, and the desperate vagrant valleys between those mountaintops, too: Some secrets are better left secrets.
A few weeks ago my brother, Gay, made some snide comments about me, and as you might guess, I railed against them and called him a liar. And he is a liar, he's the first to not admit it, but he insisted these particular claims of his were accurate. Since he's a liar, that would have been enough to convince me they weren't true. But he produced pictures, which complicated the matter.
With my resident Chief Debunker Gordon Chumway on hand, I proved the photos were not faked. But were we faked? Replaced with gullible fools who could no longer tell the difference between fakes or legitimate pictures? It seemed possible, and Gordon and I argued with each other, going in circles until we accidentally went back in time, changed history, and erased the existence of our favorite commune correspondent Penny Priddy. This was getting us nowhere. I sought ought professional help.
My usual hypno-regression therapist, Dakota, put me to the ultimate test, and scoured my brain to find deeply repressed memories. And what she found was the worst of all possible conclusions: For a short time, I was a member of the College Republicans.
Oh, hideous fate, readers! It's far worse than the uncovered repressed memories of my multiple molestations by celebrities and alien abductions....
º Last Column: Roughed Up by an Angel º more columns
Sir, let the truth ring out from mountaintop to mountaintop, and the desperate vagrant valleys between those mountaintops, too: Some secrets are better left secrets.
A few weeks ago my brother, Gay, made some snide comments about me, and as you might guess, I railed against them and called him a liar. And he is a liar, he's the first to not admit it, but he insisted these particular claims of his were accurate. Since he's a liar, that would have been enough to convince me they weren't true. But he produced pictures, which complicated the matter.
With my resident Chief Debunker Gordon Chumway on hand, I proved the photos were not faked. But were we faked? Replaced with gullible fools who could no longer tell the difference between fakes or legitimate pictures? It seemed possible, and Gordon and I argued with each other, going in circles until we accidentally went back in time, changed history, and erased the existence of our favorite commune correspondent Penny Priddy. This was getting us nowhere. I sought ought professional help.
My usual hypno-regression therapist, Dakota, put me to the ultimate test, and scoured my brain to find deeply repressed memories. And what she found was the worst of all possible conclusions: For a short time, I was a member of the College Republicans.
Oh, hideous fate, readers! It's far worse than the uncovered repressed memories of my multiple molestations by celebrities and alien abductions. In fact, those occasionally gave my life some meaning. But this…! Sir, I have been duped or railroaded or convinced with sheer logic to join nearly every political organization over the years. I have had flirtations with the Democratic party on numerous occasions, and a nasty dry hump with the Green Party throughout the 1990s; I have supported Libertarians, Anarchists, Communists, Eco- and Social-focused parties over the years. I am a proud Sandwich-Socialist, leading back to the grand old days when I invented the party. But a Republican? I shudder to think.
Not that I deny the horrible truth. Dakota has never led me astray on repressed memories before. Besides, if I dwell on it too long, I'm worried I will eradicate other commune staffers, and we're overworked as it is. No, I believe it's true, especially considering the context it was all placed in. The mid 1950s, attending an ivy league school I'm court-ordered not to name-drop anymore, just off on my own from my father and my unhappy childhood. I had sworn off the smoked buffalo meat business and had my permanent falling out with dear old dad. I needed belonging, conformity. I needed ascots and blazers with emblems and golf courses and yachting clubs. The small stipend father sent to me was enough to make me a rich young man, and I found solace in the inbred classes. And, much to my regret, I did like Ike.
To make it clear, this is not who I am. It's who I was at one time. I fell out of the good graces of the well-to-do by the time the 1960s started, and I found my true calling in developing ghost divining equipment. I rejected father's money and made my own living working in various odd jobs and odd journalistic magazines, like The American Journal of Sand and Bi-Curious. Somewhere, in the midst of making my old life, I must have repressed the old one.
And frankly, I was happy with things the way they are. If anyone provides a re-repression therapy service, please contact these offices immediately. º Last Column: Roughed Up by an Angelº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Do unto others how you would do unto somebody who you knew for sure would do the same stuff back to you that you did to them, only in reverse. On second thought… just be nice, okay asshole?”
-Beazus Frist, CPAFortune 500 CookieNobody likes a smartass… wait a minute, everybody loves a smartass. It's you they don't like. In an effort to make your personality more rounded and appealing, try learning the Tibetan Touch of Death this week. Remember, God made it hard to get your tongue into your own ass for a good reason. This week's lucky prescriptions: Cockgromax, Deuglycontin, Halitosinex, Slopecia, Lilpenihance, Fucoft.
Try again later.Top Rejected Cars| 1. | Honda Pfffttpp | | 2. | Chevy Crack Ho | | 3. | Chrysler on the Cross | | 4. | Ford Theater | | 5. | He Ain't Chevy He's My Brother | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Lemon Chester 12/8/2003 The King of the Road (Part 3)Author's note: In previous chapters, King Luthor of Kuntnose, having lost his kingdom to dark enemy Rupert, forged an army and/or social club consisting of Bainbridge, the conformist knight; Linux, the dark leprechaun; Feedle, the husky dwarf; the dog Farts; and Munchen, he of the creatures who laugh at jokes they do not get. Tragedy struck when the eldest member of the group and Vegas longshot to make it in one piece, GiGijerod, whilst battling the ancient fire demon, fell into a gopher hole and disappeared forever. Luthor and his posse valiantly found a detour around Volcano Mountain and annexed an unused part of the dark forest for a short-cut to the castle Oogh, where they hope to capture the almighty Cockring of Power to aid them against Rupert.
"Oh, woe is us,"...
Author's note: In previous chapters, King Luthor of Kuntnose, having lost his kingdom to dark enemy Rupert, forged an army and/or social club consisting of Bainbridge, the conformist knight; Linux, the dark leprechaun; Feedle, the husky dwarf; the dog Farts; and Munchen, he of the creatures who laugh at jokes they do not get. Tragedy struck when the eldest member of the group and Vegas longshot to make it in one piece, GiGijerod, whilst battling the ancient fire demon, fell into a gopher hole and disappeared forever. Luthor and his posse valiantly found a detour around Volcano Mountain and annexed an unused part of the dark forest for a short-cut to the castle Oogh, where they hope to capture the almighty Cockring of Power to aid them against Rupert.
"Oh, woe is us," lamented Feedle, swinging his ax carelessly to chop down foliage ahead of them, mostly just for fun. "And pity be on poor GiGijerod, who so valiantly gave his life in our quest!"
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," said Bainbridge, rather quietly.
Feedle, possessing a complex about his height that made him put on a tough façade, jumped at Bainbridge and held him fast. "How dare you! You would mock the name of our fallen comrade!"
"Not his name. His actions were rather questionable," said Bainbridge with fear. "Not that I belittle GiGijerod. When he was sober, he was quite the kind heart and powerful staff. But let's face it, he started that whole thing with the fire demon."
"Coward!" yelled Feedle, swinging his ax dangerously close to Bainbridge's metal head. "I suppose you would sit in fear while the fire demon complained loudly of your choice of jukebox music?"
"I honestly do not believe it would be as big a deal to me, and the scuffle in the inn with the fire demon seemed all too avoidable, from where I sat."Luthor, having had enough, stepped between the two of them. His mighty hands separated the dwarf and drinking buddy.
"Ladies, please! We are on a mission of greater import than squabbles over Patsy Cline music." He silently prayed for his lost comrade. "GiGijerod sacrificed himself, though his sacrifice was possibly avoidable and unnecessary—but it is not for us to argue. We must carry on. We cannot look to the past, for we will walk directly into the tree of the future if we should."
Munchen laughed inappropriately.
"Quiet!" shrieked Linux, spinning around with his throwing stars drawn. He always said the same thing whenever Munchen laughed, but this time it was for a different reason. He could hear the sound of stalking. The stalking of them. He threw his stars haphazardly, and pinned a diminutive, shriveled creature to the tree by his excess flab.
It was a hideous, shrunken little thing that might have once been a man. But not anymore, oh, lordy, no. Now it was raspy, cringing, unphotogenic. It referred to itself as Scrottum, and it, too, sought the Cockring of Power.
"Pleasssee, massssterssss! Do not hurt Scrottum! Scrottum is friend! Scrottum can help you! Scrottum is a friend to your cause! Scrottum is kind of friend to return car with full tank of gas if Scrottum were to borrow! Scrottum good reference for job application, only need to ask! Scrottum get your back in a fight, Scrottum not just talking out Scrottum's ass!"
"What's your name?" asked Luthor hesitantly.
"Scrottum, dumbass!" the thing shrieked, then shrunk back in fear. "Forgivesss Scrottum, massstersss. Scrottum sometimes get snappy due to overwhelming darkness vying for control inside."
They were not sure they could trust this thing, this Scrottum—but if they were going further, into the darkest reaches of the Road ahead, they would soon learn Scrottum was their only chance.
For more of this great story, buy Lemon Chester's novel The King of the Road   |