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 February 23, 2004 |
San Francisco, CA Junior Bacon The boldy inscrutable governor, seen here agreeing with everything in general.
Though no one present at the convention could understand the governor through his thick Austrian accent, many believe Schwarzenegger’s statements to be against homosexual marriage, given his body language and the way he shook his finger disapprovingly while making the “buttfucking” gesture with his hands and pelvis.
In addition to these cues, when Schwarzenegger’s comments were met with a confused silence from the con...
purred into action by San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom’s issuance of marriage licenses to over 3,000 gay and lesbian couples over the last two weeks, California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger took the opportunity at the state’s Republican convention in Burlingame to grunt something about the controversial topic of same-sex marriage.
Though no one present at the convention could understand the governor through his thick Austrian accent, many believe Schwarzenegger’s statements to be against homosexual marriage, given his body language and the way he shook his finger disapprovingly while making the “buttfucking” gesture with his hands and pelvis.
In addition to these cues, when Schwarzenegger’s comments were met with a confused silence from the convention crowd, the California governor went on to spend the next five minutes struggling to pronounce the word “illegal” in a way that was intelligible to English-speakers.
Several possible translations of Schwarzenegger’s statement have been offered by various news organizations, not the least of which has been the commune, with some help from in-house action film expert Omar Bricks.
“Men are not for marrying other men,” translated Bricks, from a tape recording of the governor’s series of guttural moans and awkwardly rounded syllables. “Men are for friends and for having sex if you are too muscular and powerful for women’s bodies, who snap like twigs and have spines that shatter from your powerful pelvic thrusting. But men are not for to marry. They cannot cook good and are bad for sewing shirts that rip from bulging muscles. For this I am glad for my wife Maria who is like sewing and cooking machine, and for friend Steve who has haunches like a racehorse.”
Republican leaders across the country insist that Schwarzenegger’s statements had to have been in opposition to same-sex marriage, since the man is a Republican for Christ’s sake. Others also pointed out the governor’s obvious need to physically compensate for a lack of inner self-esteem, making support of homosexual causes unlikely, and the fact that the man comes from a foreign land where they hunt gay people for sport.
“I don’t think Arnie would support fags getting married,” stated Republican sensitivity poster-boy Orrin Hatch, pondering the inner nuances of a man who has spent the majority of his life focusing on ways to make his muscles bigger. “Fuzzbumpers maybe, that could be hot. But not two guys. After all, the dude’s from Austria. They cook gay people in soups there, from what I hear.”
President Bush also expressed his opinion of Schwarzenegger’s likely opinion, explaining that it was clear from the movies that both Douglas Quaid and the Terminator believed that marriage was a social contract to be entered into only by one man and one woman. In elaborating upon his own opposition to gay marriage, Bush also explained that he’s found intercourse with a woman to be enjoyable both times he has attempted it.
Should Schwarzenegger’s position on same-sex marriage be determined by Ouija board or some kind of “stomp once for yes” communicational system in the near future, it could spell trouble for Mayor Newsome of San Francisco. Though Newsom may have the state Constitution on his side, he’s unlikely to have enough bullets to stop Schwarzenegger if the governor is mad enough or scripted for a bloody finale. the commune news has been marrying gay people for years, and we don’t appreciate all this recent publicity bringing pissed-off homosexuals out of the woodwork demanding their money back. Ramon Nootles is our in-office barometer on the same-sex marriage issue, if he gets married before gays have the right, then the world is most definitely fucked. Incidentally, Nootles getting married is also our barometer for when to pack a parka for hell and when to keep an eye out for falling pig shit.
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 January 26, 2004
A Lazy Miracle: The History of the Remote ControlThe American people should thank the inventor of the remote control. We should thank our fat asses off. Because if it weren't for the remote, we'd have to get up off the couch every time something crappy came on TV, which means we'd all have bionic Teflon knees by now. And I don't know about you, but I like my current knees just fine.
Before the invention of the remote, Americans had to get up off their big, fat asses to change the channel every time something crummy came on, which led to the modern trend of watching whatever is on for hours regardless of quality. Beaten down and bitch-slapped by the repressive lack of technology in those days, Americans slouched away their meek little lives in front of such stultifying fare as Ted Hammerslut's Big Band Breakdown and The Russians in the Cushions, both of which were huge ratings hits in the 50's because TVs came from the factory set to that channel.
During World War II, those ingenious fucks known as the Nazis developed the first remote control technology, which they utilized in the design of a robotic doorman that was used to heil Hitler a cab when he was visiting Nazi central headquarters in Berlin. Due to the crummy technology of the day, the robot didn't work very well and after decapitating Hitler's mother-in-law in 1943, it was given the German medal of honor (the coveted "Big Bastard") and retired to a furniture showroom in Dresden.
Early attempts to adopt the Nazi...
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The American people should thank the inventor of the remote control. We should thank our fat asses off. Because if it weren't for the remote, we'd have to get up off the couch every time something crappy came on TV, which means we'd all have bionic Teflon knees by now. And I don't know about you, but I like my current knees just fine.
Before the invention of the remote, Americans had to get up off their big, fat asses to change the channel every time something crummy came on, which led to the modern trend of watching whatever is on for hours regardless of quality. Beaten down and bitch-slapped by the repressive lack of technology in those days, Americans slouched away their meek little lives in front of such stultifying fare as Ted Hammerslut's Big Band Breakdown and The Russians in the Cushions, both of which were huge ratings hits in the 50's because TVs came from the factory set to that channel.
During World War II, those ingenious fucks known as the Nazis developed the first remote control technology, which they utilized in the design of a robotic doorman that was used to heil Hitler a cab when he was visiting Nazi central headquarters in Berlin. Due to the crummy technology of the day, the robot didn't work very well and after decapitating Hitler's mother-in-law in 1943, it was given the German medal of honor (the coveted "Big Bastard") and retired to a furniture showroom in Dresden.
Early attempts to adopt the Nazi remote technology for use in television sets were unsuccessful, as the remotes would channel-surf on their own looking for reruns of The Three Stooges.
The first successful television remote was developed by the Zenith Electronics Corporation in 1950. Called the "Lazy Fuck," the device was attached to the television by a long wire, and was used less for controlling the TV than it was for tripping crabby housewives in hilarious ways all across America. Though a huge hit among unhappily married men all across the country, overall the unit did poorly due to its bitingly accurate name.
In 1955, Zenith sort of improved on their invention with the creation of the "Flashmatic," a small device that looked exactly like a flashlight but wasn't because it said "Remote Control" on one side. Viewers aimed the Flashmatic at one of four light-receptive cells positioned on the corners of their television screen, allowing them to turn the set on, change the channel up or down, and explode the television. Some considered the lack of an "off" command to be an inconvenience, but forward-thinking Zenith executives imagined a day when Americans would never turn off their televisions, making unsightly "off" knobs a garish eyesore. The main purpose of this innovation, however, was to draw attention away from the Zenith's exploding feature, which made tidy profits for the corporation due to repeat business from customers with poor hand-eye coordination who blew up several television sets a year.
Eventually the Flashmatic had to be phased out since on sunny days the set would flash channels randomly for a few minutes before exploding, and in 1956 Zenith televisions killed half the residents of Arizona. The Flashmatic was replaced in 1957 by the Zenith Space Command, a revolutionary new remote technology named to appeal to small boys and the insane. The Space Command used an unpowered remote which contained four small aluminum rods. When the buttons on the unit were struck violently, preferably with a xylophone mallet, the rods would produce inaudible ultrasound tones that were then picked up by vacuum tubes hidden inside the television set.
The Space Command worked like a charm, a shitty, useless charm, and was a big hit among the tech-savvy and expectant mothers who soon realized that if they stood close enough to the humming set, they could see their babies. Unfortunately, after several years of lawsuits from families claiming birth defects and complaints from dog-whistle enthusiasts that their sets kept exploding, Zenith decided to discontinue the Space Command in 1959. For nearly two decades Americans were plunged back into the darkness of throwing coffee table knick-knacks and snack items at television sets in hopes of jogging the channel knob.
The modern remote made its debut in 1980, with current units using gamma radiation to perform tasks as disparate as setting a VCR's clock or cooking a Thanksgiving turkey faster than a microwave. Research found the gamma rays caused attention deficits in children and obesity in adults, but it was a small price to pay to not have to watch CHiPs anymore.
In 1992 MTV debuted a gameshow called Remote Control, which was of no consequence to anyone beyond the fact that it fills up three lines of column space.
Over the last twenty years, countless new remote-controlled innovations have hit the market, changing the way we live forever. From the "Bitch Be Quiet" human silencer to the remote-controlled "Woody," few can deny that remote controls are here to stay. And why not?
Well, I'm waiting. I'll expect an answer by Monday. º Last Column: More Fads: The 1930'sº more columns
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|  September 12, 2005
Strictly for the Inner CircleSorry, kind readers, but I haven't the time to waste writing for you this week. I have managed to get back on track with the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (BCW, for you conspiracy fans) after losing my foot in the door so tragically this time. I speak metaphorically, of course, and my literal foot suffers nothing more than a dangly, unclipped toenail and a stark and pungent odor. But why am I wasting time like an unaccredited Dr. Scholl's? I have to catch up with all my new contacts, and my column is the quickest and safest way to do. But just in case someone is actually reading it, I'll do everything in the agreed-upon code for all my compatriots.
To the kind and stealthy Mr. Humphrey: It's all set for Tampon, right around Fluff-fifteen. Check the code book I gave you on how to translate those times. But I was lucky to get it set up, so don't go showing up at 4:30 or too early at 4:10. Thursdays are always hell in doctor's offices anyway. Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you where it is! It's at Pigeon Michaels' office. Remember? Pigeon Michaels, the Ear, Nose and Throat Pigeon?
For Willie and Sanchez: I'll be there at midnight tonight, in the agreed-upon location. And I'll have my bass with me. That's not code. I will be bringing my bass, since my band is rehearsing shortly before the meeting.
Turnip, or Mrs. Turnip: Make sure you have the Glockenspiel properly lubricated. I don't want another rash on my sensitive parts because you...
º Last Column: Taking Back the commune
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Sorry, kind readers, but I haven't the time to waste writing for you this week. I have managed to get back on track with the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (BCW, for you conspiracy fans) after losing my foot in the door so tragically this time. I speak metaphorically, of course, and my literal foot suffers nothing more than a dangly, unclipped toenail and a stark and pungent odor. But why am I wasting time like an unaccredited Dr. Scholl's? I have to catch up with all my new contacts, and my column is the quickest and safest way to do. But just in case someone is actually reading it, I'll do everything in the agreed-upon code for all my compatriots. To the kind and stealthy Mr. Humphrey: It's all set for Tampon, right around Fluff-fifteen. Check the code book I gave you on how to translate those times. But I was lucky to get it set up, so don't go showing up at 4:30 or too early at 4:10. Thursdays are always hell in doctor's offices anyway. Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you where it is! It's at Pigeon Michaels' office. Remember? Pigeon Michaels, the Ear, Nose and Throat Pigeon? For Willie and Sanchez: I'll be there at midnight tonight, in the agreed-upon location. And I'll have my bass with me. That's not code. I will be bringing my bass, since my band is rehearsing shortly before the meeting. Turnip, or Mrs. Turnip: Make sure you have the Glockenspiel properly lubricated. I don't want another rash on my sensitive parts because you didn't do it right. Anthrog Baker, Esquire: The Cake did not rise. Repeat, the Cake did not rise. Cancel the party. Shaolin Henry: We're turning away all guests that don't know the Piper. If the Piper hasn't been paid, kick their ass to the curb. Forget them. Don't let them in if they got their hand stamped last night. It's a new night, a new Piper to be paid. Ronald McDonald and the Hamburgler: The paddies are hot. Don't touch them. I'm not responsible for what happens if you grab the paddies. Mrs. Turnip: I forgot to ask, can you show me how to bake a proper Cake? Ours didn't rise. It really sucks, because we had to cancel our party and everything. Fantasia Martin: If you must, you must. But watch out if the dog is outside. He's sitting in the water dish. Dickless and Assmunch: In regards to last week's queries, no, you can't have your nicknames changed. It serves you right for taking a smoke break while we were assigning names. Pedro: The border is wide open and fully unguarded. Come home, and come home quick. Bundles, a.k.a. Monsignor Bundles: Study the Rubicon. We have a schedule to keep, and every day those Chocolate Chips don't come in we lose another 5 million Cancers. Og the Hog: Call me sometime. Remember me? This is Red Bagel, from Kappa Delta. We need to catch up sometime. Franco and my Publisher Harold Mortensen: The book is finish and ready to be published. That's code for you, Franco. Normal talk for you, Harry. Omar Bricks: Get your dead fish out of my office. This is not code, but I can't stand the wait anymore. I've measured it and you're not anywhere near the world's record, even for clear water pond catches. Blanche: See what you can do about getting me a cell phone. I can't keep in touch with any of the gang. I've had to resort to using my column to keep up the conspiracy messages. Everyone else: Bugger off. I'll have more to say to you next time. º Last Column: Taking Back the communeº more columns
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Quote of the Day“There ain't no cure for the summertime blues. Or HIV. Boy, AIDS, that must suck. This has been a Public Service Announcement from Eddie Cochran.”
-Eddie CochranFortune 500 CookieLook to the stars for guidance: preferably someone who's been in a big movie in the last five years. You will go to the bathroom this week. Don't be fooled by your lack of progress in life: things can still get much worse. This week's lucky gelatin desserts: Jell-O Jigglers, Jell-O Epileptics, Limp Hicks, Greased Piggie Bites, Spineless Weasels, Slime Dogs.
Try again later.Top Cruel New Rumors| 1. | Gay people can't whistle | | 2. | Tennessee quarter shows state trooper harassing black motorist | | 3. | French Stewart not actually French | | 4. | Cats love vodka | | 5. | Donald Trump is secret owner of McDonald's chain | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 11/25/2002 Hello Yellow, America! Step right up for another dose of Entertainment Police love, and just see if you don't come away with a lump in your throat or breast. Like our forefathers and foremothers before us, pointing their forefingers in a vague gesture of thanks, we're here to give thanks that the holiday movie season is finally upon us. Just as the pilgrims gave thanks that they wouldn't have to sit through any more Indian "coming of age" tales or movies about animal spirits walking around and shitting everywhere, we give our thanks that the big budget movies are finally here. The food industry may try to convince you that you're happy this Thanksgiving because you're eating dried out turkey with your hideous in-laws, but we all know better than that. That smile on your face can be...
Hello Yellow, America! Step right up for another dose of Entertainment Police love, and just see if you don't come away with a lump in your throat or breast. Like our forefathers and foremothers before us, pointing their forefingers in a vague gesture of thanks, we're here to give thanks that the holiday movie season is finally upon us. Just as the pilgrims gave thanks that they wouldn't have to sit through any more Indian "coming of age" tales or movies about animal spirits walking around and shitting everywhere, we give our thanks that the big budget movies are finally here. The food industry may try to convince you that you're happy this Thanksgiving because you're eating dried out turkey with your hideous in-laws, but we all know better than that. That smile on your face can be directly traced back to seeing Stephen Segal kick that guy's ass with a Christmas tree. So without further delay, let's get to the late November movie releases.
In Theaters
Adam Sandler's Eight Crazy Nuts
Eventually, gross-out humor in the movies had to go too far, alienating even the retarded adolescents and middle-aged pro wrestling fans who have made it a goldmine for studios and Tom Green over the last decade. It looks like Adam Sandler may be the one left holding the hot potato when that song stops, because his new film is so over-the-top it makes There's Something About Marty look like Dating the Mormon Way. This time around, Sandler plays an annoying, mealy-mouthed loser named Sadam Andler who has his mother's penny-pinching passion for Mexican pharmaceuticals to thank for the fertility pills that caused him to be born with eight testicles. Sandler milks those extra nuts for all the comedy they're worth, including a nauseating mix-up involving a blind man buying grapes at a produce stand, not to mention Andler's gut-wrenching hazing at the hands of the Chinese ping pong team. If you had to say something good about the film, I guess you'd point out that it's animated, which saves us from any disturbingly realistic nutsack textures. And that's more than enough reason for me to give thanks this year.
Diet Another Day
Bond's apparently getting a little chunky in the ass section these days, as was bound to happen eventually. It's tough to keep the pounds off after 40, even if you are a super-secret limey sex machine. Pierce Bronson squeezes his lumpy can into the penguin suit for one more go-around as he saves the world from rich idiots once again and tries to get into Chuck Berry's daughter's pants. I suppose it's about as good as the last 87 Bond films, but I have to admit it leaves stretch marks on the torso of believability at times. So you're telling me that the Ministry of Spy Shit can outfit 007 with a cell phone built into a tic-tac no problem, but they can't get their hands on some Fen-Phen for this guy? Please.
Extreme P.O.S.
Truth in advertising is a concept that rarely applies to movie titles, as evidenced by such famously misleading crocks as Babe and Naked Lunch. But every once in a while Hollywood spits out an appropriately named flick just to draw in the curious, like Knock Off or Senseless. Well, as Britney Spears would say: "Shit, They've Done It Again." Aiming at the same audience that tapes Mountain Dew commercials, the producers put together a cast of albino piercing models to snivel their way through an hour and a half of weakly justified snowboarding stunts and truly horrible music. Originally titled Duuude!, the producers eventually decided to hedge their bets by giving the film a heavily ironic title, figuring it might give them a shot at Sundance and betting that Generation Ysters wouldn't notice, anyway.
The Friday After Next Friday
Apparently the original title, Two Weeks From Now didn't make it clear enough that this was a sequel to Ice Cube's stinky horror flick I Still Know What You'll Do Next Friday, though you'd think that would be a good thing. If I were them, I'd call it Ain't No Way This is a Sequel to That Shitball, which might cause some translation problems when they release the film in Singapore, since I hear they eat shitballs there. Hey, when in Rome. In the long run, it probably doesn't matter what they call it, since it'll be on Beta in about two weeks. Every once in a while a movie does so poorly they skip the DVD and VHS releases all together and put it out straight to Betamax, figuring that the poor suckers with those types of VCRs will buy anything to try and recoup their entertainment investment. Usually they reserve that honor for Tim Allen movies, but I see them branching out in this case, trying to make inroads into the "found this thing in the dumpster" demographic.
Wes Craven Presents: They…
It's always sad when an artist dies in the middle of a project, leaving us to wonder what might have been had they not opted to crap out early and cheat us out of something that might have been great. Who knows what funny things John Belushi might have yelled, or how fat Jim Morrison might have got, had they not been taken from us so soon. Less compellingly, but more relevant to this review, who knows what horrormeister Wes Craven would have called his last film? He managed to finish the film but kicked off before he could finish naming it, leaving us to wonder what the proper title would have been. They're Invisible But Sound Scary As Hell? They Look Like Throw Rugs But They Eat Your Feet? They're Right Behind You, Dipwad!? The possibilities are endless, and the movie's no help because it's awful, but who knows how good it could have been with the right title?
And that's all she wrote, ladies and gender-neutrals. Check back next issue when we hit the sweet spot between Thanksgiving and Christmas and marvel at all the wonders scheduled for release within. By the way, for those of you have been asking, word is that word on the street is that Margaret Cho's Thanksafuckinglotgiving has been delayed once again, look for that to hit theaters in April.   |
