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Afghanistan Northern Alliance Declares Jihad on AmericaNovember 26, 2001 |
Washington D.C. Liam Snoot/AP A bunch of jerks who we THOUGHT were our friends.
"This is a complete surprise, sort of," said president Bush, reportedly "fumin' mad" at the betrayal. "If nothing else, myself and everyone in my administration are amazed by the quick turnaround time. This has to be some sort of personal record."
Trouble reportedly started when a coup within the Northern Alliance replaced former strongmen within the organization with fundamentalists disappointed in the lack of...
he American people were shocked Wednesday, but not all that much, when Afghanistan's Northern Alliance declared a holy war or "jihad" on the United States. The Northern Alliance recently took power in Afghanistan from our most recent enemies, the Taliban, who were unseated due to efforts of the United States and a coalition made up of other NATO countries.
"This is a complete surprise, sort of," said president Bush, reportedly "fumin' mad" at the betrayal. "If nothing else, myself and everyone in my administration are amazed by the quick turnaround time. This has to be some sort of personal record."
Trouble reportedly started when a coup within the Northern Alliance replaced former strongmen within the organization with fundamentalists disappointed in the lack of support the U.S. has pledged the new government of Afghanistan in the distant future. General Jamir Guzakibad, the newly empowered leader of Afghanistan's new government, has promised America will learn to respect the new prominence of the country or it will face dire consequences.
President Bush, upon hearing Guzakibad's threats translated for him, simply rolled his eyes, his head slumped into a hand with his other hand tapping his fingers in a hum-drum order from left to right.
"Here we go again," said the president.
Guzakibad has only offered veiled threats so far, but has vowed that the Afghan people are powerful and are chosen by Allah themselves as the rightful inheritors of their country, as well as the land surrounding them. Including the holy land currently occupied by Israel.
"If the American people are resistant to the divine call of the Afghan people," continued Guzakibad, "we have instruments in our possession capable of defending ourselves, with extreme means, if necessary."
In response, Secretary of State Colin Powell has speculated publicly that it may be necessary to move troops into strategic positions outside of Afghanistan's capital of Kabul.
"Fortunately, we have some guys who were there anyway," said Powell, a little bored.
Thursday night, the president interrupted only ABC's weak Thursday programming lineup to assure the American people the current threat will be dealt with cautiously.
"We will, uh, persevere and… yeah, you know… freedom is sacred, all that. Those who died… l'see… enemies are cowards…"
The rest of the two-minute speech was similarly fragmented as Bush continued to refer back to notecards and sigh deeply. When all of his high points were addressed, Bush waved away the camera and left the stage, as ABC resumed an episode of Whose Line is it Anyway? where two guys were miming riding bicycles. the commune news just wants to celebrate its birthday quietly this year, so don't make a big deal about it. Lil Duncan is the commune's senior correspondent and is, to quote the Fabulous Thunderbirds, "Tuff Enuff."
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 December 8, 2003
The Straw that Broke the Camel's BackWhen a guy sticks a gun in your ribs and says "Alright buddy, that's the straw that broke the camel's back!" you really have to wonder. What kind of crazy camel-killing fucker am I dealing with here?
Seriously, what kind of sadistic asshole cripples any large, hooved animal under an avalanche of straws? Even as a figure of speech? That's just insane.
That's a shitload of straws, when you think about it. Who has this many straws, nevermind the need to transport them? And couldn't he have sold a few of them to buy a cart instead of piling them all on the camel's back like some cruel moron? Who are the crazy bastards who were using camels to carry straws, anyway? Was this a common occurrence at some point in history? To the best of my knowledge camels hang out in the desert, and if there's nothing to drink there then what in the hell do they need the straws for? And where were those PETA freaks when all these camels' backs were being snapped? I can't even drive around with a dog on the hood of my car without getting grief from those people, and Foghat loves that shit.
commune research editor Griswald Dreck tells me they didn't even have straws back in camel days, but I'm pretty sure he's shitting me about that. We have this running joke between us where he gives me shit and I mail him naked pictures of his sister I bought on eBay. It goes way back, don't even ask.
I mean, how could they not have straws? I'm sure there are a...
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When a guy sticks a gun in your ribs and says "Alright buddy, that's the straw that broke the camel's back!" you really have to wonder. What kind of crazy camel-killing fucker am I dealing with here?
Seriously, what kind of sadistic asshole cripples any large, hooved animal under an avalanche of straws? Even as a figure of speech? That's just insane.
That's a shitload of straws, when you think about it. Who has this many straws, nevermind the need to transport them? And couldn't he have sold a few of them to buy a cart instead of piling them all on the camel's back like some cruel moron? Who are the crazy bastards who were using camels to carry straws, anyway? Was this a common occurrence at some point in history? To the best of my knowledge camels hang out in the desert, and if there's nothing to drink there then what in the hell do they need the straws for? And where were those PETA freaks when all these camels' backs were being snapped? I can't even drive around with a dog on the hood of my car without getting grief from those people, and Foghat loves that shit.
commune research editor Griswald Dreck tells me they didn't even have straws back in camel days, but I'm pretty sure he's shitting me about that. We have this running joke between us where he gives me shit and I mail him naked pictures of his sister I bought on eBay. It goes way back, don't even ask.
I mean, how could they not have straws? I'm sure there are a few wiseasses in the crowd who are thinking "Cuz they hadn't invented them yet, dick!" in the voice of that giant cartoon dog Goofy. Real slick, goofballs. How do you invent a straw? That's bullshit, it's like inventing a brick. Didn't happen. That's like an award they give out in Special Ed class, "Congratulations Benny, you invented the straw!" Whoopie.
I've invented the straw dozens of times when I was stuck at home with no way to suck up a beverage, and nobody threw me a parade. Half a ballpoint pen usually does the trick pretty nicely, though a rolled-up magazine will sometimes work in a pinch. Best to read the magazine first though, because good luck on reading that thing after you've used it to suck up a wine cooler. Really, the best thing is to use your neighbor Mitch's Reader's Digest or some recipe book you accidentally grabbed at the grocery store checkout because you thought it contained the secrets of the Tarot or some shit. Those take less sucking power since they're short and you're not likely to shed any tears over the polar rescue story you didn't get to read or that you don't know how to make a crabcake.
Dreck insists that they really didn't have straws back then, and that he seriously isn't getting me back for the time I got sick in his bowling bag. He says back then when you wanted to take a drink on the go you soaked a sock in it and then took the sock with you to suck on. If that's true, all I can say is sucks to be from the past. Goddamn. I can just see the commercial on TV where some N*Sync loser is telling me to suck the Coke out of his socks. No thanks, bud.
I still say there had to have been straws. You can't tell me nobody ever stumbled across a stick with a hole in it and then dunked it in his goat's blood or whatever they were drinking back then. If nothing else there were a bunch of straw-inventing motherfuckers wherever the hell bamboo is from. I'd put money down on that.
Now I just know this shit's going to keep me up at night until I can get down to the zoo to see exactly how many straws we're talking about here, and how in the hell you balance them on the back of a camel. Great.
Bricks out. º Last Column: Don't Believe the Hypeº more columns
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|  January 6, 2003
A High-Resolution New YearMany readers have an unshakeable image of me from reading my column. They see Rok Finger as a cool, collective individual with a good head on his shoulders, by way of a stodgy little neck. A tough-as-nails, yet sensitive and insightful observer of human nature, in the least effeminate way possible. A creature of perfection, who could not get any better. But you could not be further from the truth.
Like anybody else, I try for improvement. New Year's is a time for me, like everybody else, to look within using my mind's eye, which has X-ray vision, and ask myself, "What would Rok Finger do?" Meaning to make himself better. Me better. I speak of New Year's resolutions. Let's make them together, shall we?
Chief among my New Year's resolutions is to cut down on use of the third person when I speak. It just gets too damn confusing. Maybe in return I could increase my use of the second person. You can do it, Rok! There. That sounds more supportive already.
Camembert and Lee have suggested that maybe I'm a bit aggressive as a roommate. Well, Lee said it. Camembert couldn't look me in the eye when I was told this, so that's as good a sign as any that he agrees. Is it possible? Are you too strong a personality for weasly jelly-spined lifeforms like Camembert? Not everybody has your self-confidence and dynamic personality, some are overwhelmed. And people don't need to be overwhelmed, they need to be encouraged. So I say, way to go! I will see...
º Last Column: 'Tis the Season for Gifts with No Pleasin'
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Many readers have an unshakeable image of me from reading my column. They see Rok Finger as a cool, collective individual with a good head on his shoulders, by way of a stodgy little neck. A tough-as-nails, yet sensitive and insightful observer of human nature, in the least effeminate way possible. A creature of perfection, who could not get any better. But you could not be further from the truth.
Like anybody else, I try for improvement. New Year's is a time for me, like everybody else, to look within using my mind's eye, which has X-ray vision, and ask myself, "What would Rok Finger do?" Meaning to make himself better. Me better. I speak of New Year's resolutions. Let's make them together, shall we?
Chief among my New Year's resolutions is to cut down on use of the third person when I speak. It just gets too damn confusing. Maybe in return I could increase my use of the second person. You can do it, Rok! There. That sounds more supportive already.
Camembert and Lee have suggested that maybe I'm a bit aggressive as a roommate. Well, Lee said it. Camembert couldn't look me in the eye when I was told this, so that's as good a sign as any that he agrees. Is it possible? Are you too strong a personality for weasly jelly-spined lifeforms like Camembert? Not everybody has your self-confidence and dynamic personality, some are overwhelmed. And people don't need to be overwhelmed, they need to be encouraged. So I say, way to go! I will see to it this year that Camembert is much more encouraged to speak his mind. We will begin rigorous training in that department at 0200 hours tonight, right after V.I.P. is over. I'll make it a surprise.
I was talking with my ex-wife Arvelyn the other day—I came down her chimney dressed as Santa Claus as a Christmas surprise, and we had a happy reunion after the pepper spray's effects faded. She confessed to me that, on some level, right below the fear and indescribable rage at my behavior, she still loves me. She even wishes we could reconcile, but she said I'm far too paranoid and snap at the least little thing. I denied it, of course, but after setting fire to the Christmas tree in retaliation I didn't have much of a leg to stand on. I conceded that maybe she had a point, and I would try to improve that in the future—at least until I can find out what her ulterior motive is in this game.
In fact, you could even say that my cat Makeshift is the only one who has no problem with me. Which is why I kidnapped him. Such a good friend and ally should live with me rather than my arch-enemy/ex-wife. "Kidnapping" might be a misrepresentation. Catnapping is probably more accurate, as well as more adorable.
I'm not even getting into what my office mates think of me. So many emotionally-troubled people in one place shouldn't be given consideration, which is the logic I've been using for the Israel-Palestine conflict for years. But each of them is angry with me about something—whether it's my on-target advice on how they handle their personal lives, my complaints about their distracting breathing noises, or my wearing a wire during personal conversations (again, Mr. Bricks, nothing personal, just doing my civic duty), they all have a bone to pick with me. A bunch of lousy bone pickers.
To study myself in this context, this barrage of complaints, you'd think I needed more than a tweak here or there in the Rok Finger personality matrix. I needed a dad-blamed reconstruction. Which makes my New Year's resolutions completely clear, at least.
I resolve, first and foremost, to not let the opinions of others bother me. I must be more sure of myself, I must defy criticism in every form, and I must be steadfast against the corruption of others.
And I'm going back to the third person. Rok Finger was much closer to perfect before this mess started. º Last Column: 'Tis the Season for Gifts with No Pleasin'º more columns
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Quote of the Day“Sometimes when we touch the honesty's too much. Okay, you want the truth? It's not the honesty. It's that really rough patch of skin you have. Have you ever been to a doctor for shingles?”
-Hildy DanielsFortune 500 CookieThis Bud's for you; at least, that's what I'm telling the cops if they pull us over. You'll be horrified to learn that woman you've been ogling in that "Physical" video for years is mom. White man finally break treaty again, just like you been expecting all these years. Take the Rockford Files theme off your answering machine already, the joke was old in 1994.
Try again later.Top 5 Pre-Rapture Activities| 1. | Making fun of people who believe in the rapture | | 2. | Borrowing money from people who believe in the rapture | | 3. | Ironic Masturbation | | 4. | Angry Birds | | 5. | Monopoly: Rapture Edition, or prayer, whatever everybody’s up for | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Beck Steinman 12/13/2004 Mousey MenThe sun descriptively climbed under the clouds, playing peek-a-boo with California as it squatted behind the distant hills, to take a cosmic dump. Joe and Britches came to a cool glen, which is not slang for a guy named Glen who is "holding," but instead a lake area with a refreshing pond. They washed their muddy hands and laughed loudly. Then they drank the water they had just washed their muddy hands in, which is gross.
"We're sure living the high life now, ain't we Joe?" said Britches.
Laughing even louder, Joe agreed. "We sure are, Britches. I got a good feeling about California. The fruits on the trees is so ripe they fall right into yer hands, just like everyone done told us. Yep, I can't see ever running into any miserable irony in a land so gosh-darned...
The sun descriptively climbed under the clouds, playing peek-a-boo with California as it squatted behind the distant hills, to take a cosmic dump. Joe and Britches came to a cool glen, which is not slang for a guy named Glen who is "holding," but instead a lake area with a refreshing pond. They washed their muddy hands and laughed loudly. Then they drank the water they had just washed their muddy hands in, which is gross.
"We're sure living the high life now, ain't we Joe?" said Britches.
Laughing even louder, Joe agreed. "We sure are, Britches. I got a good feeling about California. The fruits on the trees is so ripe they fall right into yer hands, just like everyone done told us. Yep, I can't see ever running into any miserable irony in a land so gosh-darned bee-yoo-ti-ful."
"I loves it when you speak phonetically, Joe," grinned Britches. He was an idiot man-child, but don't tell him I said so, if he ever asks you. I'm not trying to sound mean, it's just a fair description. A big old dipshit, dumb as a bag of Quayles, but with a kinder heart than you ever laid eyes on, assuming you're in the business of going around ripping kind hearts out of people's chests.
His partner, traveling partner, nothing funny going on, Joe, was a short man, who blamed his height on account of his legs being so close to the ground. Joe was the brains of their little group, of course, since the idea of very big men with brains is offensive to short men everywhere, like my publisher. He and Britches had been traveling together for months, and they found it a good partnership. Joe was always there to count Britches' money, so the bosses didn't short-change him anything, as well as help him with difficult tasks like putting his shoes on his feet, instead of his hands, which had helped Britches double his work output. In exchange, Britches was big and muscular, and good for getting Joe out of jams, like all the times he got into fights in bars loudly mouthing off about girl scouts.
Things had gotten tight, though, in the place they were from—Hawaii. So they headed east, to California, where they heard stories about all the beauty and pastoral, untouched nature, except for the dense smog. A fellow could get work there, too, people promised them. Joe and Britches loved to listen to liars, which was probably a fault they should have worried about. But for now, the worries were gone—they had made it to California, and could hardly wait to find work picking fruit. They'd pick anything, for the right price—apples, grapes, peaches, noses, what the hell.
Joe splashed the water on his grimy skin. He laughed even harder, nearly passing out. "Golly, Britches, if that water don't feel good after all that train dust. We should wash up good, 'fore we go looking for work. You smell like something crawled up your armpits and died."
"Just the one," said Britches, and he took a dead bird from his armpit.
Joe's smile dramatically vanished. "Now, Britches—what did I tell you?"
"Just because a man has sex with another man, it don't mean he's gay."
"No, the thing about pets," shouted Joe, pointing with anger.
Britches slunk guiltily as he sat against a log, the dead bird in his hands. "I know… I can't have no pets. 'Cause I'm too big, and not all that intelligent. But I swear it, Joe, I was only trying to hug it! I wanted to hug it hard so I could show the baby bird how much I loves it! I did!"
"And hugging it killed that bird?"
"Well, it may have been moving a bit while I was trying to shove it up my behind, but judging by the way it felt, it was mostly dead already," said Britches.
Joe joined his traveling buddy on the log, putting an arm around one of his shoulders—he was too big for a two-shouldered consolation. It wasn't his fault, Joe told himself. If great books had taught him anything, it was that it's never the fault of the idiot man-child.
For more of this great story, buy Beck Steinman's novel
Mousey Men   |
