he 12 jurors in the Michael Jackson trial surprised some hopeless optimists last week when they returned a verdict of “not guilty� on all 10 counts, allowing the King of Pop his legal freedom and probably inspiring some questionable lyrics from a future album. Among the reasons given by the jury for their decision, more than one, two in fact, said they believed Jackson probably did molest virtually every child who came into his mansion—but not this kid, according to the evidence.

Legal analysts, and by that we mean lawyers without jobs, have pointed to startling revelations during testimony of witnesses to explain the “not guilty� verdict in the Jackson case. Among the more surprising disclosures was that the accused, long thought to be a 13-year-old boy, was in fact a diminutive man with a long police record, known in street parlance as Philadelphia Freddy.

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for this money-driven legal system!� screeched the gravel-voiced midget, shortly after the announcement of the verdict.

The defense painted a strong picture of a short, unruly child/crime boss and his money-grubbing mother, who parlayed a brush with cancer into a molestation gold mine and tried to catch Michael Jackson in a kid-touching trap, to no avail. Jackson, who had previously settled out-of-court molestation cases on at least two previous occasions, could not be fingered, pardon the expression, in this particular molesting accusation. Jurors claim that although they really wanted to hang Jackson out to dry for all the other occasions of molestation he’s been guilty of, in this special and rare instance, he wasn’t guilty of that specific crime.

“It’s obvious Michael Jackson is a sick, sick man-child,� said a juror, who asked not to be identified, but looked like a “George� to us. “But in this particular case, as brought by Jackson-hounding D.A. Tom Sneddon, there wasn’t enough evidence to nail his peculiarly shaded ass. It’s too bad, because I think he molested three or four kids of some of the jurors, but we weren’t actually trying those cases, and had to go by what the judge instructed us.�

Some critics of the case have not only charged Sneddon with fumbling an easily unfumbleable ball, but have alleged the way the case was framed by the judge made it hard for a jury to convict Jackson of the crime. Among the strange instructions, Judge Rodney Melville warned jurors could not consider previous allegations of sexual abuse made against Jackson, and Jackson’s celebrity status had to be ignored.

“I ask you again,� said Judge Melville, “to think of Michael Jackson as any ordinary man who can afford the world’s most powerful attorneys at his beck and call. If you like, you may also think of Jackson’s heartfelt song, ‘Man in the Mirror,’ and how it made all of us think of how any one of us has the power to change the world. Me, I personally love to think of his small but pivotal solo in the ‘We Are the World’ song.�

Santa Barbara District Attorney Tom Sneddon, described by some as a bloated law enforcement official out to bring down the King of Pop, no matter the humiliation done to him and his office, said he regretted the jury’s finding, but had no complaints against the case his office had built, the jury itself, the judge’s role in the case, or the case of the defense. He only wished they had been able to call as a witness one of the other “possible million� boys Jackson had likely molested.

At the same time, a nationwide poll performed by people with lots of time on their hands, found that up to 49% of respondents thought the jury had made the wrong decision, and that Jackson was guilty of molesting boys. Though the exact same percentage also hoped similar charges would be brought against Huey Lewis and the News, anything to make sure they didn’t show up on some future VH-1 ‘80s nostalgia special.

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We continue our flip-flop on previous political stances here at the commune, and applaud President W. George Bush for his fearless perseverance to do the right thing for Iraq, no matter how many in the world disagree.

That's right. The main purpose of this column has always been to expose conspiracies and shine the golden light of truth on the hidden corners of government and the world, but piss on that—that's golden, too, you know. The president has received unending support from Americans since the start of the war, particularly Americans outside of large metropolitan areas and educated circles, and the commune wants to make it clear we support this president. As shown with Wednesday's liberation of Baghdad and Saddam Hussein's cowardly death by bomb drop, the ends have clearly justified the means.

Yes, freedom has finally hit Iraq, and knocked down the buildings and buried its people in shrapnel. Every American was filled with a sizable amount of patriotic do-gooderism seeing that giant statue of Saddam Hussein yanked down by an American tank and its head dragged through the streets. It was not unlike when U.S. troops knocked over that giant statue of Hitler in Berlin and blowtorched the mustache off—if any of you are old enough to remember that. It's too bad there weren't more televisions in households in 1945 to show that, as well as the technology to broadcast it.

In the spirit of the new, presidential-friendly commune, we would like to announce a few apologies, retractions, and corrections concerning the White House. We've given the president a good ribbing, so it's only fair we acknowledge our previous mistakes.

To start off, in the first few months following the 2000 election results, it was perhaps a little crude to refer to George W. Bush as "election-thief Bush" or "Electoral Vote Hi-Jacker Bush" as we did. It likewise may not have been in the best interest of fairness to continue the use of quotation marks on the word "president" when referring to Bush in articles.

Reports that the president's secret serviceman codename was "Captain Shithead" may have lacked the proper verification for publication, and we may have misrepresented that. Opinion columns stating that Bush's stance on race relations was similar to that of a 1850s plantation owner were probably a little hard on the president; news articles declaring the same thing were even more egregious examples of our previous bias.

The "W" in George W. Bush cannot be proven to stand for Warmonger, Whack-Job, Whitey, or Whiffledick. Any article referring to the president as Fascist W. Bush may have been typing errors.

Pictures of a long-haired, orange-jumpsuited bearded man with a swastika carved into his head may have been incorrectly identified as George W. Bush when in fact they were probably Charles Manson. The fact these photos appeared repeatedly labeled as the president cannot be explained.

Pictures of the president anally violating animals may have possibly been created in Photoshop. We have one we're reasonably sure about, but at this time we're urging careful speculation on all previous photos of the same nature.

At this time, we cannot verify the legitimacy of any quotes previously attributed to the president. On those rare occasions verification was possible, we decided not to seek it out. It's better to not know.

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If there's one thing Ned hates, it's dribbling baby eyeballs. Seemingly everywhere: in Ned's taco, spreadable on toast, and in the wheel-well of his car even! Cereal boxes so jam-packed that there's not even room for the cereal itself. Drooping out of his glove compartment, sloshing around in his underwear drawer, filling up his rain gauge like they was invited!

Who can Nedder blame for this plague of ocular proportions? Quebec? Yes, most likely so it is Quebec who is fallen asleep at the wheel. Long has Ned trusted them Canadians to keep his living space clear of such annoyances, and for another time they have let Ned down. First it was the day he found his deep-freezer to be full of crickets, a sure sign that Quebecans is slacking off on the job. Another time it was all the slimy basketballs in Ned's pool, and yet another the day he woke up with his sinus cavities packed full of rice crispies.

Long ago was the day the King of all Lands appointed them Quebecers the guardians of all things irregular and entrusted them with keepin' the world stable and whatnot. And more often than not, they've done their jobs. But today, Ned is calling them to the carpetbagger on their failure to keep things right.

But what does a boy do now? Does Neddle send them a bill for having all them drooping baby eyeballs flushed out of his radiator? Is Ned to expect a letter of apology for the Eye McMuffin him accidentally bit into this morning? What about the goopy, gelatinous eyeball muck currently clogging up his roof gutters? One is afraid to even address that issue, sure enough.

How about the time that Volkswagen pulled up in Ned's driveway and those thirteen identical Martin Shorts got out and insisted on staying as Ned's guests for a month? What with all their juggling and dirty joke-telling and whatnot. Who's to reimburse Nedder for that trauma of an emotional nature? And who's going to compensate the local pee-wee league football team who had their knickers dusted by the All-Martin-Short team in the championship game?

There's a smell on the wind and Ned's nose tells him it's the smell of Canadians. Time for them to get them maple-syrup-slurping bottoms on down here and pay the piper. He's been noodlin' on that pipe for a good four days straight now, and Ned sure as hell didn't hire him, and so is not likely to be too up in the teeth about paying him his owed due wages. Let me tell you.

So come on, folks of Quebec. Time to get with them programs! No more raining lobster bibs, no more child seats full of walrus meat, no more erector-set birthday bees. You know how them things is likely to happen and how they aint. No more celibate tuna policemens or nerf balls that come out the governor's mouth when he talks. No more deep-sea flute recitals or monsters bearing witness to the conversion of pope Archibald. No more, says Ned! Them shindiggeries has gone on long enough.

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