|  | 
June 20, 2005 |
Shown in this sketch from the cover of their planned debut album Meet the Jurors, the jury in the Michael Jackson trial could not find specific evidence of sexual contact with this particular alleged victim, leading to the pop starâs release⌠from jail.   he 12 jurors in the Michael Jackson trial surprised some hopeless optimists last week when they returned a verdict of ânot guiltyâ 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 mansionâbut 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 ânot guiltyâ 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 fa...
he 12 jurors in the Michael Jackson trial surprised some hopeless optimists last week when they returned a verdict of ânot guiltyâ 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 mansionâbut 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 ânot guiltyâ 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.
âAnd I would have gotten away with it, too, if it werenât for this money-driven legal system!â 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 heâs been guilty of, in this special and rare instance, he wasnât guilty of that specific crime.
âItâs obvious Michael Jackson is a sick, sick man-child,â said a juror, who asked not to be identified, but looked like a âGeorgeâ to us. âBut in this particular case, as brought by Jackson-hounding D.A. Tom Sneddon, there wasnât enough evidence to nail his peculiarly shaded ass. Itâs too bad, because I think he molested three or four kids of some of the jurors, but we werenât actually trying those cases, and had to go by what the judge instructed us.â
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 Jacksonâs celebrity status had to be ignored.
âI ask you again,â said Judge Melville, âto think of Michael Jackson as any ordinary man who can afford the worldâs most powerful attorneys at his beck and call. If you like, you may also think of Jacksonâs heartfelt song, âMan in the Mirror,â 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 âWe Are the Worldâ song.â
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 juryâs finding, but had no complaints against the case his office had built, the jury itself, the judgeâs 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 âpossible millionâ 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 didnât show up on some future VH-1 â80s nostalgia special. the commune news congratulates Michael Jackson on getting off, and weâll just stop that joke in progress while some modicum of good taste may be preserved. Ramrod Hurley is a top-notch office manager here at the commune, and this verdict certainly jeopardizes his own Michael Jackson civil suit heâs been cooking up.
 | Martha Stewart defense makes witness into decorative tea cozy
 Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling Airline wireless opens door to "Help! We're crashing!" prank calls
No, really, everyone will be dressing as a douchebag this Halloween
|
Muslims Protest Violent Cartoons by Fucking Shit Up Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden Stealers Wheel Win Super Bowl, Says Heavily Accented Man Colin Farrell Claims Responsibility for Groin Injury That Sidelined Kwan |
|  |
 | 
 March 19, 2012
Suicide is Too Good For YouAgain we find ourselves in this same spot, George. You, babbling on about your hurt feelings; myself, thankful I do not have a gun, because all it takes to kill a man is a gun and the will to riddle them with bullets, and believe me, all I lack is the gun. Whatâs that? You would kill yourself if you had a gun? Then weâre at last in agreement on something, George, and itâs long overdue. Actually, no. Suicide is too good for you, George.
Yes, suicide, that haven for cowards and those who lack the will to fight. You are a coward, George, and you lack the will to do anything. But I still would not have the actions of all those courageous self-killers blemished by you adding your lumpy, wrinkle-ridden corpse to their numbers.
Oh, Iâm sure youâd do it. Not because you have the shred of self-respect that suicide requires, but because youâre just that thoughtless, to blow your brains out and leave me to find a disreputable cemetery where I could bury you in an unmarked grave. Perhaps I would put a big "X" on the ground to mark your place, only so an unwitting family doesnât build a house over your bones and find itself haunted by the worldâs most sadsack ghost. Better yet, Iâll put a small wooden tombstone at the head of your grave site, with a picture of you tacked to itâthe international symbol for pathetic windbag buried here.
I take that back, George, thereâs no way you could kill yourself, if you dared to, if you...
º Last Column: We Must Become the Change We Want to See in the World º more columns
Again we find ourselves in this same spot, George. You, babbling on about your hurt feelings; myself, thankful I do not have a gun, because all it takes to kill a man is a gun and the will to riddle them with bullets, and believe me, all I lack is the gun. Whatâs that? You would kill yourself if you had a gun? Then weâre at last in agreement on something, George, and itâs long overdue. Actually, no. Suicide is too good for you, George.
Yes, suicide, that haven for cowards and those who lack the will to fight. You are a coward, George, and you lack the will to do anything. But I still would not have the actions of all those courageous self-killers blemished by you adding your lumpy, wrinkle-ridden corpse to their numbers.
Oh, Iâm sure youâd do it. Not because you have the shred of self-respect that suicide requires, but because youâre just that thoughtless, to blow your brains out and leave me to find a disreputable cemetery where I could bury you in an unmarked grave. Perhaps I would put a big "X" on the ground to mark your place, only so an unwitting family doesnât build a house over your bones and find itself haunted by the worldâs most sadsack ghost. Better yet, Iâll put a small wooden tombstone at the head of your grave site, with a picture of you tacked to itâthe international symbol for pathetic windbag buried here.
I take that back, George, thereâs no way you could kill yourself, if you dared to, if you had the fraction of self-esteem it would take. No bullet could pass through your head. It would simply bore half-an-inch deep, yawn, and then lose itself in the humdrum of your inane conversation. Yes, George, Iâm convinced even inanimate objects find you offensive, and more offensive than offensive, agonizingly dull. Poison in your food would leap off the fork just to get away from your ever-running mouth, just as the dead chicken it coats would, if it hadnât been mercifully slaughtered already. The blade of a knife? George, no self-respecting piece of steel would be caught dead penetrating you, terrified of what the other blades would think, all the names it would be called or the inevitable accusations of preposterously low standards. Hell, the blade would shrivel like your most reprehensible bits themselves if it came within a millimeter of your ashen bare flesh.
So, George, it appears youâre resigned to live the rest of your hideous natural life, and Iâll be forced to live it with you, unless Death is much kinder than tales have told, and it comes to take me in my sleep tonight. I will count the hours. You, however, George, you may be luckier than anyone else. How do you fancy immortality, George? Kind or not, Death would have nothing to do with you, thatâs my prediction. You will trod down the street, searching everywhere, see Death in a bar, either at work or taking a break at the end of its long day, and Death will put its skeletal hand over its face and try to hide from you. Oh, Christ, thereâs George, he wants me to at last end his life, but that would require touching him. Fuck that, Death will say, in the vernacular of our times. Heaven will not take you if it did, because itâs Heaven up there and those good occupants should be spared your constant whining, and Hellâwell, even those damned to Hell do not deserve some tortures. You geriatric loose sphincter.
Enough, George, I say enough of your tears! Enough of your prattle, enough of your pleas for compassion. I have enough compassion to tell you things the way they are. Stop your sobbing and put on your best numb façade, as the rest of us do while you speak.
And grab your good sport jacket. I wonât have you looking like the worldâs most vile hobo when you collect your Lifetime Achievement Award this evening. The good shoes, George, not the Crocs. My word, George. Get dressed by yourself once, that would be a lifetime achievement. º Last Column: We Must Become the Change We Want to See in the Worldº more columns
| 
|  January 24, 2005
Superbowl Come HomeHello, invisible commune friends. Long time Boris does not talk to you. Forever long time you do not talk to Boris, always quiet reading Boris letters and not write back. commune is like far-off penpal who is dead.
But Boris happy writing again after to find secret that McDonald bags is also writing papers on back side. So tricky to learn tricks of life.
So much does happen since time of Boris being big air place port hero last time. City have big parade right away to honor Boris, so many policemens in uniform things does march with Boris out of airplane place and into special important car for parade ride, and all persons does point and look at Boris. Hello! they are waving. Such happy day for to appreciate works of Potato Boris at long lasting, whole city is full of cars to see superhero thing.
Then there is ceremony at police building to honoring Boris, and even they give Boris fast bath with hose and police haircut to help hide Potato Boris identity. So smart! Now superenemies will see and think, "Oh, is just Boris. Neverminding." Yay for disguise!
Boris does stay at special police hotel for important heroes long time. Is not like normal hotel with walls for enemy to hide. Special police hero hotel has bar walls, all see through so no creeping. This one more smart police idea.
And there is meeting things with special persons in funny clothes to honor Boris, even to see carpenter king who sit in high chair...
º Last Column: Boris is Terminal º more columns
Hello, invisible commune friends. Long time Boris does not talk to you. Forever long time you do not talk to Boris, always quiet reading Boris letters and not write back. commune is like far-off penpal who is dead.
But Boris happy writing again after to find secret that McDonald bags is also writing papers on back side. So tricky to learn tricks of life.
So much does happen since time of Boris being big air place port hero last time. City have big parade right away to honor Boris, so many policemens in uniform things does march with Boris out of airplane place and into special important car for parade ride, and all persons does point and look at Boris. Hello! they are waving. Such happy day for to appreciate works of Potato Boris at long lasting, whole city is full of cars to see superhero thing.
Then there is ceremony at police building to honoring Boris, and even they give Boris fast bath with hose and police haircut to help hide Potato Boris identity. So smart! Now superenemies will see and think, "Oh, is just Boris. Neverminding." Yay for disguise!
Boris does stay at special police hotel for important heroes long time. Is not like normal hotel with walls for enemy to hide. Special police hero hotel has bar walls, all see through so no creeping. This one more smart police idea.
And there is meeting things with special persons in funny clothes to honor Boris, even to see carpenter king who sit in high chair in dress and does bang on hammer. Boris does not like carpenter from story where him does eat all the Walrus food, but now him does seems okay. Fancy persons does much talking with carpenter king while Boris does watch Game Boy. You know this thing? Is fun small TV with show about blocks that fell in hole. So fun to watch. Yay for blocks!
But then one day fun hero adventures must end because police hotel is on fire and all guests is running out like after bad movie. Boris does follow but doesn't not remember detail because of watching Game Boy at same time. So fun this thing!
Next thing Boris does make friends at V.F.W. place, where Boris does wander while watching block show. Is fun place for dead animal to watch Boris drinking, like Chuck E. Cheap place without millions children telling Boris come out of ball pit. But important part of story is V.F.W. friends tells Boris important secret news. Is two week to Superbowl! Holy oh no, this is so soon.
Boris almost does forget of Superbowl, most fun thing for being alive. And Superbowl reminding Boris of Louis, and can spray cheese, both important part of Superbowl fun! So sad to miss all these thing. So new secret mission for Boris to find Louis and have Superbowl party thing before is too late. Yay for secret Superbowl mission!
Last detail now to figuring out where Louis does live, and where Potato Boris is being now, and if is sidewalk between. Ooh. After this block show. º Last Column: Boris is Terminalº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“You can't tell me what to do. Unless I was already just about to do the thing you said. Then I'll do what you say, but not because you said to do it. Hold on; let me draw up a flow chart.”
-Pistain JohnsonFortune 500 CookieIn retrospect, it was a mistake to name your jewelry store "Who Faahted?" Try learning a new song this week: Everybody's sick of the theme from Ice Pirates. You'll get lucky in the market this week: all your stocks will plummet, but you're going to get laid by a butcher. This week's lucky terms of endearment: Ninjatits, Daddy's Little Freebaser, Grape Ape, President Precious, Monsieur Brabuster.
Try again later.Top Replacements for Dead Dog| 1. | Dead Dog's Twin Brother | | 2. | Game Boy Advance | | 3. | Cheech Marin | | 4. | Old Throw Blanket That Smells Like Alpo | | 5. | Sound FX CD Vol. 16: Barkapalooza | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY H.I. Standard 7/22/2002 The Bitcher in the CityIf I start telling you my story, it will be on my time. I'm not going to force it on you if you don't want to hear it, but if you're reading this still after all these typed words, you must want to hear it. Why? Do you think it's some sort of interesting tale or something? Don't make demands on me of what kind of story to tell. Asshole.
But since I'm writing anyway, I might as well tell you what happened to me when I left Truffaut Bible College in northern New York state. I had to leave, they were all a bunch of useless tools up there. I'm directionless, that what my parents and my guidance counselors say. But you know what I say? They're tools. A bunch of dumb fucking useless tools. And you are, too, big-ass useless reading-my-shit tool, you.
Plus, I had to...
If I start telling you my story, it will be on my time. I'm not going to force it on you if you don't want to hear it, but if you're reading this still after all these typed words, you must want to hear it. Why? Do you think it's some sort of interesting tale or something? Don't make demands on me of what kind of story to tell. Asshole.
But since I'm writing anyway, I might as well tell you what happened to me when I left Truffaut Bible College in northern New York state. I had to leave, they were all a bunch of useless tools up there. I'm directionless, that what my parents and my guidance counselors say. But you know what I say? They're tools. A bunch of dumb fucking useless tools. And you are, too, big-ass useless reading-my-shit tool, you.
Plus, I had to leave because I flunked out. And I burned my Bible. And it turns out my parents never really enrolled me there. That's just like those tools, to make me feel like I'm no good at school because they never enrolled me. My whole mixed-up life is their fault. I never asked to be born. At least I don't think I asked, and if I did I can't be held responsible, I was just a pre-born kid.
My useless-ass tool of a teacher, Mr. Pangloss, gave me $20 to catch a train or something back home to New York City, but instead of going directly home I sat in the bus station for a while. I watched all the freaks going by, thinking how awful their lives were and how they couldn't wait to get to their next stupid appointment. They were hideous sorts of people, ugly and smelling terrible, just like my old school jacket when I hadn't taken a shower after gym class. The smell followed me wherever I went throughout the city, as I bundled my old school jacket tighter around me to protect against the wind. 'Scuse me.
I finally left the bus station when it got to depressing. I didn't want to go home yet, but I was a little worried about what I was going to do in the middle of New York City with hardly anything to my name. After the train ride I only had $6 to last me until I got home again, that and my stupid old knapsack with my copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass from school that I had never read, a change of shorts, a picture of my big brother Squirrel, and a dead flower of only symbolic significance. And my Visa card with a $10,000 credit limit, I suppose I could survive on that if I needed to.
I was kind of an outcast because I hated everybody in the school I went to, where I failed, where I was never really enrolled, and I had actually murdered one of my roommates before I left and they probably had found his body in the pale white snow on the outer grounds of the school by now. That was another reason I was reluctant to go stupid home, but it wasn't like it was my fault. I'm not the one who labeled myself a sociopath with homicidal tendencies in the child therapy sessions my parents made me go to.
In a way I wished I could go home. Like maybe if I had a laser of gigantic stupid constructive capability I could destroy the entire world except for the parts of it that I liked. Like the miniature foreign exchange student that lived with my parents before I went off to school. I liked her a lot, sincerely. And my brother Squirrel, he was a good guy, at least before he got married and became a bigshot sell-out "Texas Ranger," hunting down murderers like me and such nonsense. But everybody else I'd probably destroy if I could. Only if I had a laser. Sure, I could destroy everyone one by one like I did my roommate Kyle, crush their soft skulls with a surprise brick in the back of the head, but I'm the kind of person who would get half the world killed and then give up because it was too hard. So what's the stupid point?   |