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U.S. Expects Iraq to Settle Down for NBA PlayoffsApril 19, 2004 |
Afro-loving renegade cleric Muqtada al-Sadr extols his followers on the virtues of the triangle offense
The nation's Shiite majority is comprised overwhelmingly of San Antonio Spurs supporters, led by Muqtada al-Sadr, a Shiite rebel cleric and hardcore Spurs fan who is often photographed wearing a Tim Duncan jersey along with his traditional turban during basketball season. Experts are at a loss to ...
espite escalating violence across Iraq, US Marines remain confident that all will be well in the country once the NBA playoffs begin this week, distracting Iraqi insurgents from their anti-occupation agenda with dazzling basketball action. However, though the mesmerizing influence of fantastic NBA drama may likely sooth the current conflict, experts warn that new tensions could arise between the San Antonio Spurs-loving Iraqi populace and the largely Laker-friendly occupation forces.
The nation's Shiite majority is comprised overwhelmingly of San Antonio Spurs supporters, led by Muqtada al-Sadr, a Shiite rebel cleric and hardcore Spurs fan who is often photographed wearing a Tim Duncan jersey along with his traditional turban during basketball season. Experts are at a loss to explain Iraq's passion for the San Antonio team, which may be caused by that region's similarity to Iraq in arid climate and close proximity to hell. Despite their underdog status, Iraqis seem convinced the Spurs will prevail against the great white dragon of the Los Angeles Lakers.
"Fallujah my noojah, bitchaz!" al-Sadr mugged for television cameras on Monday, flashing some kind of bizarre Iraqi basketball gang signs.
"The thing you have to understand is that these fanatical loyalties in Iraq go back hundreds of years," explained Iraq expert and big eater Dr. Erwin Stagg. "Or however long the NBA's been around, that long. Imagine you were a Spurs fan and a bunch of Laker fans burst into your house and started bossing you around and eating your chip dip. How would you like that? Not much, I think. Now imagine they had guns and your house was the size of Iraq. Pretty weird, eh?"
In an effort to keep the peace, troops stationed in Iraq have been admonished to keep their team biases to themselves when dealing with Iraqi civilians, though President Bush did the coalition efforts no favors when he ended his news conference last week with a fist-pumping cry of "Go Lakers!" Pundits are calling this move a ploy to boost Bush's flagging public support, a desperate change in tactics after the president realized he had milked the tit of conservative Christian dogma drier than Phyllis Diller's snatch.
Complicating matters further, considerable pockets of Detroit Piston-loving Sunni Arabs dot the Iraqi landscape, increasing chances of further tribal violence in this already war-torn land should the Spurs and Pistons meet in the NBA finals.
"Yo, San Antone gonna smack you down when you come wit dat weak-ass shit," an Iraqi youth said through a translator, seeming to address more than the upcoming NBA finals. Though when asked to elaborate, he just pantomimed slam-dunking a basketball, which may or may not reflect upon the US's long-term prospects for democratic nation building in the region.
Even terror mastermind Osama Bin Laden wants a piece of the playoff action, offering an Arab cease-fire in exchange for US and European forces putting down a dime on New Jersey for him and maybe hooking up a little courtside seat action. Negotiations with Bin Laden apparently stalled out after coalition negotiators were unwilling to budge from their best offer of a generous satellite TV package and a game-worn jock strap from Nets point guard Jason Kidd.
The NBA finals are scheduled to wind down in June, which coalition planners feel will be close enough to the June 30th hand-over date for Iraqi sovereignty to allow US forces to get the fuck out of there before anything else blows up. Though if the Spurs are eliminated from the playoffs in an early round, the US may have to choose between extending their occupation of Iraq, or teaching the Iraqis to love baseball. the commune news has been witness to our own in-office tribal wars, though since no one here knows a basketball from a debutante ball, the factions usually break down along "you're an asshole/no you're an asshole" lines. Ivan Nacutchacokov was kidnapped three times during the reporting of this story, and would like to thank the Mujahideen Squadrons for the surprisingly luxurious accommodations.
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British Nearly Affected by London Terror Attacks ith their famously stoic façade put to the ultimate test, Londoners came through with flying colors this week, failing to register the slightest emotion in the face of stunning terror attacks on the city’s mass transit system that left 50 dead and over 700 wounded. “Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.” Jackson Prosecution Produces Bloody Glove he Michael Jackson trial escalated to the seventh level of hooplah Friday as prosecutors introduced into evidence a bloody sequined gloved that had not been previously revealed publicly. The defense requested a recess, to which the witty judge replied that no one had been good enough to deserve recess, but they would take a brief break. It gave the Jackson defense, led by attorney and Warhol knock-off Thomas Mesereau, a chance to recover from the five-fingered blow. Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
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 April 19, 2004
Happy CamperI just returned from that commune retreat thing, where I had a lot of fun. I know everybody else got back about three weeks ago, but like I said, I was having fun. As far as I'm concerned, I decide when the retreat is over. It's not very cool to invite me to a relaxing retreat and then decide I'm relaxed before I decided.
But it worked out pretty sweet. I had a lot of fun, set fire to a few things, got into a few scrapes with wild animals, all the things a good vacation should be. I had a chance to do some real soul-searching, and scored a few wallets, too. It's not very Bricksian, I know, but I had to ask myself where my life was going. No car, no love in my life, working for the commune—some people might consider those things setbacks. All in all, I'm happy, don't get me wrong, but since I don't have a family, I thought maybe it was time I did something to gain me some immortality points.
Now, I know a lot of people can do different things for immortality—paint pictures, donate money to hospitals for a building in their name, or spray paint your name on a wall. But I wanted to do something with children, since the courts are always telling me I've got a lot in common with them. Kids are cool, unless they're complete shits, but you have to make that distinction on a kid-by-kid basis. So I wanted to give back to them. Help shape the future by doing something today. Or not today, you know, but in the next couple of years or whatever. Introducing...
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I just returned from that commune retreat thing, where I had a lot of fun. I know everybody else got back about three weeks ago, but like I said, I was having fun. As far as I'm concerned, I decide when the retreat is over. It's not very cool to invite me to a relaxing retreat and then decide I'm relaxed before I decided.
But it worked out pretty sweet. I had a lot of fun, set fire to a few things, got into a few scrapes with wild animals, all the things a good vacation should be. I had a chance to do some real soul-searching, and scored a few wallets, too. It's not very Bricksian, I know, but I had to ask myself where my life was going. No car, no love in my life, working for the commune—some people might consider those things setbacks. All in all, I'm happy, don't get me wrong, but since I don't have a family, I thought maybe it was time I did something to gain me some immortality points.
Now, I know a lot of people can do different things for immortality—paint pictures, donate money to hospitals for a building in their name, or spray paint your name on a wall. But I wanted to do something with children, since the courts are always telling me I've got a lot in common with them. Kids are cool, unless they're complete shits, but you have to make that distinction on a kid-by-kid basis. So I wanted to give back to them. Help shape the future by doing something today. Or not today, you know, but in the next couple of years or whatever. Introducing (drum roll) Camp Bricks!
You heard right, boys. Camp Bricks. I got the idea while we were on that retreat, how it was almost like a really boring touchy-feely camp for adults. But being close to the woods brought out the real Omar, and I thought if I could do that for kids, that shit would kick.
Well, I suppose I also got the idea partly from Meatballs, 1 and 2. 2 was pretty crappy, but it wasn't too bad. 3 was awful, so I wouldn't want my camp to be like it at all. Mainly I just figure kids need a place where they could come and get into races and all sorts of athletic competitions against rich kids and find a way to win using their own weirdness to their advantage. And they can talk about jacking off and swim across the lake to hang out with girls and stuff. I wish I had the chance to do some of that stuff when I was a kid. I could swim across the Hudson River if I wanted, but that's got a pretty strong current. And there were plenty of girls on this side of the River to hang out with, so it seemed pretty pointless.
Kids need a way to build up their self-esteem. If you watch shows about kids these days they're all idiots. They dress like they get prizes for conforming and they worry about getting into college when they're 9. That's bullshit. I say if you're not on a first-name basis with a court's juvenile case worker, you're not getting the full childhood experience. They need a role model, and I don't see why it can't be me. Anything's got to be better than those Malcolm in the Middle posers.
I should say that I won't be messing around with teen-age girls. Anymore. Fool me once, shame on me, all that, and the cops are watching me pretty closely about it all. But I figure I can take care of the boys, there's got to be someone cool enough to handle the girls out there. Not that I'm against dressing up and pretending to be a counselor named Edwina. If nothing else, it would make a really good chapter of my autobiography, and they could make it into a movie called Big Sister, but right now I'm strictly looking for the genuine female variety of counselor. Let me know if someone cool comes to mind. º Last Column: Black Host Downº more columns
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| April 4, 2005
Cordially Requesting Your RestraintI've always thought there should be some kind of intermediate step that comes before a restraining order. Because after all, "order" does sound pretty bossy. And Americans don't like being ordered around any more than we like paying for music or a legitimate cable TV connection. So I have no idea why we're still stuck with these old bullshit English laws. Our country should have something like an official Restraining Request, like "Stay the hell away from your ex-wife, if you don't mind." That'd be way more to my liking.
Unfortunately, many of our nation's lawmakers aren't regular My Friend Polio readers, so I'm stuck dealing with the restraining order my new neighbor Hamms slapped on my tender ass last week. Can you believe this shit? I swear to God, the cops catch you naked in your neighbor's basement in the middle of the night, the carpet saturated in cherry Jell-o to create a room-sized Slip 'n Slide, and you might as well not even have a trial. I've always thought being caught naked doing anything puts you at an automatic legal disadvantage, and now I have the proof.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have brought over that giant boom box, since the thudding bass from that Mexican polka music is undoubtedly what brought the attention of the law and woke Hamms up in the first place. But like they say, hindsight's on 20/20, and that bitch Barbara Walters asks some mean questions.
So now I have to stay 100 yards away...
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I've always thought there should be some kind of intermediate step that comes before a restraining order. Because after all, "order" does sound pretty bossy. And Americans don't like being ordered around any more than we like paying for music or a legitimate cable TV connection. So I have no idea why we're still stuck with these old bullshit English laws. Our country should have something like an official Restraining Request, like "Stay the hell away from your ex-wife, if you don't mind." That'd be way more to my liking.
Unfortunately, many of our nation's lawmakers aren't regular My Friend Polio readers, so I'm stuck dealing with the restraining order my new neighbor Hamms slapped on my tender ass last week. Can you believe this shit? I swear to God, the cops catch you naked in your neighbor's basement in the middle of the night, the carpet saturated in cherry Jell-o to create a room-sized Slip 'n Slide, and you might as well not even have a trial. I've always thought being caught naked doing anything puts you at an automatic legal disadvantage, and now I have the proof.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have brought over that giant boom box, since the thudding bass from that Mexican polka music is undoubtedly what brought the attention of the law and woke Hamms up in the first place. But like they say, hindsight's on 20/20, and that bitch Barbara Walters asks some mean questions.
So now I have to stay 100 yards away from my neighbor at all times, which really bites the bits since it means I can't go in my den at all, since it's too close to his house. I've been sending Foghat to fetch things I need from that side of the house, since the plaintiff foolishly forgot to include my dog in the suit, but his oversight is my gain. The real pain in the ass is that I had to drop four grand to have hidden cameras installed all over Hamms' house just to comply with the ruling, to make sure where I am in my house and where he is in his are at least 100 yards apart at all times. Next thing you know I'll be hearing from Hamms' lawyers about the Neighbors Gone Wild hidden-camera DVDs I've been selling on the Internet. Sometimes you can't win for losing.
Not that I'm sweating the whole restraining order thing, since this is probably the wimpiest one I've ever had tossed in my lap. One time I couldn't go into Kentucky Fried Chicken for an entire year, that was a real bitch. Especially since I'd been running a home-based business off their pay phone, and we'd already had some problems about KFC and I not seeing eye to eye on what their "business hours" should be, which led to the restraining order in the first place. Well, that and the whole thing about letting 400 live chickens loose in their men's room.
I have to admit though, I've always wanted to file a restraining order against somebody. Doesn't matter who, I just I think it would be hilarious to chase someone around town knowing that I've got the power of the law on my side, should they ever let the chase get too close and breach the invisible 100 yard barrier. And if you brought along a video camera, I bet you could make some mad cash selling a DVD of that shit on the Internet. Restraining Order 2: Run, Yuppie, Run.
But so far Hamms doesn't seem like the fun type at all, I think he sincerely wants me to stay out of his house. I've tried to reason with the guy that I've got so much of my shit over there we should just trade houses, but I don't think he was too impressed by the offer after he saw Foghat's treasure room, where the dog brings all the stuff he's found around the neighborhood over the years.
But I think he'll come around once he realizes that a restraining order just means Foghat's going to be over at his house twice as often now, running errands for me and searching the house for cream of asparagus soup on his own dime. Hamms can say what he wants about Omar Bricks, but at least I never barfed on his collection of antique pillowcases after eating a case of canned cat food.
I give this restraining order thing about two weeks. Bricks out. º Last Column: My New Neighbor May Well Be a Vampireº more columns
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Quote of the Day“If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it must be Microsoft's new Futuretron 3000 Duck Simulator. That's almost a duck!”
-Rodney CheesesteakFortune 500 CookieWhen kicking out at opponents this week, aim for the nuts—always a good strategy. It's time to let that baby shark go home to its mama; it's been two years and you've got to take a bath sometime. Look forward this week to a final showdown with your mortal nemesis, Weezer. But watch out for the Rentals to intervene.
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|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 8/4/2003 Well how the hell are ya, America? Excuse my saucy tone, but I'm fuckin' smashed. That's right… wait, what were we talking about? Movies! Blow 'em out your ass, America! I'm fuckin' sick of movies, this week we're going to review vegetables. Cucumbers! Radishes! En… Endives! Yeah!
Alright, smartass, I'm out of vegetables. Here's your goddamn movies:
In Theaters
American Wedding
A formerly hardass franchise has gone all Friends on us, ladies and gentlemen. Hollywood's obese felines are betting you'll slap down your hard-earned pesos to watch these dirtballs get hitched, and I say screw 'em! Screw 'em and their imported water. If I wanted to see somebody stick their...
Well how the hell are ya, America? Excuse my saucy tone, but I'm fuckin' smashed. That's right… wait, what were we talking about? Movies! Blow 'em out your ass, America! I'm fuckin' sick of movies, this week we're going to review vegetables. Cucumbers! Radishes! En… Endives! Yeah!
Alright, smartass, I'm out of vegetables. Here's your goddamn movies:
In Theaters
American Wedding
A formerly hardass franchise has gone all Friends on us, ladies and gentlemen. Hollywood's obese felines are betting you'll slap down your hard-earned pesos to watch these dirtballs get hitched, and I say screw 'em! Screw 'em and their imported water. If I wanted to see somebody stick their dick in a wedding cake I would have gone to my cousin Dave's wedding last month. So let me be the first to add this movie to my list of things we're all boycotting: Pizza Hut, the boyscouts and this movie. Oh, and vegetables. Fuck vegetables. You heard it here first.
Fucking Friday
Jamie Lee Curtis and some anonymous tampon star in this triple-hashed remake of all those "Dad woke up with his teenage son's boner" movies from the 80's. Only now it's a mother and daughter sharing the misery, and it's not a onetime deal, but rather a once-a-week hassle that the family has come to know derisively as Fucking Friday. The expected faux-hilarity ensues, with daughter getting hot flashes and mom getting hot pants, blah blah blah. The bulk of the film consists of queasy sequences featuring mom being pawed by underage slobs with beer on their breath and daughter air-sickness bagging her way through routine, mechanical sex with dad, both of which I sincerely could have done without. Somebody actually found Mark Harmon buried in the wreck of the Lusitania and dug him up to co-star as the hot neighbor who may or may not have mind-switched with a two-year-old Latino boy. They must have figured Harmon had the necessary experience with catastrophes, but at least the first time around he probably got some decent seafood.
Gigli
With his latest picture, Ben Affleck proves he's whiter than any of us could have possibly imagined, despite his current marital status as a lemur clinging tenaciously to Jennifer Lopez's ass. Affleck plays Larry Gigli, a walking punchline whose constant references to "gettin' Gigli wit it" demonstrate that Affleck can't even appropriate faux-black culture from Will Smith, of all people. Thankfully, J-Lo sings a song on the soundtrack, so maximum camp value is achieved, allowing audiences to enjoy the film on an ironic level even if they like acting and music.
The Secret Lives of Dennis
Who out there among you didn't think it was too late for a Head of the Class spin-off movie? Okay, that's not many hands, but I'll assume that's because not many of you foresaw the possibility, or even recall the show from your cocaine-encrusted chest of 80's memories. For those of you that did think a spin-off was a good idea, wouldn't you have spun off a movie around rebel loner Eric or even geek chic Arvid? Okay, you guys with your hands still up are just fucking with me, go on home and quit busting my balls. As for the rest of you, were you really thinking of going to this movie? Good God man, don't you have some chores to do? Stay home and spellcheck your suicide note or something, for the love of all that is holy.
S.W.A.T.
The latest Playstation game to skip the Playstation and come straight to the theater is a loose (and I mean like the cousin that let you feel her up at the family reunion loose) sequel to the 1994 Stephen "Midget Golfer" Dorf flick S.F.W.. This is not to be confused with the Bridget "Anaconda" Fonda handjob S.W.F. (Super White Female) or the Three Stooges flick W.F.S. (Where the Fuck is Shep?). Since the original wasn't actually about anything, the producers had the leeway to build the sequel from the ground up, and to give the franchise a kick in the ass by making it a blaxploitation thrill ride. As with the original, the American public was deemed too square to be exposed to this film's title in its full glory (Some White-Ass Turkeys), but savvy filmgoers should know without being told that Samuel L. Jackson wouldn't get mixed up in another lame movie about the actual S.W.A.T. team, not after The Negotiator. Though he did still manage to walk into a door frame by not demanding that the screenwriter change his character's name from Hohmo, I can't help but think that's going to get more laughs than any of the actual jokes in the picture.
Alright, everybody out unless they want Bacardi on their pants! You got your movies, now leave Uncle Roland to drown his sorrows in a kiddie pool full of inexpensive rum. Check back in another two weeks, but if nobody answers when you knock then just dream up your own pithy comments for once. Lazy bastards.    |
