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Congress Approves Military Budget for "Whatever the President Thinks is Fair"May 13, 2002 |
Washington, DC Whit Pistol Bush (left) and Sen. Daschle, who reacts the same way when Bush is referred to as "the president".
In an effort to quickly pass a military budget to cover next year—and the exciting promise of future military operations—both the House and the Senate conceded that what was necessary for the defense of the United States and its aggressive acts overseas was surely better decided by the president than by countless Washington insiders just there to fatten their pockets.
"Now I'm a politician, not a militaritician," said Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert (R-Illinois), "nor am I knowledgeable of what words mean. But the president is a well-informed man with infallible decision-making powers. That's all I need to know before I approve him for wh...
sure sign of the times, Congress gave a blanket approval to any military budget requests from president Bush Friday.
In an effort to quickly pass a military budget to cover next year—and the exciting promise of future military operations—both the House and the Senate conceded that what was necessary for the defense of the United States and its aggressive acts overseas was surely better decided by the president than by countless Washington insiders just there to fatten their pockets.
"Now I'm a politician, not a militaritician," said Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert (R-Illinois), "nor am I knowledgeable of what words mean. But the president is a well-informed man with infallible decision-making powers. That's all I need to know before I approve him for whatever he needs. Policeman and firefighters are the real heroes."
After months of arguing over details, according to one Washington insider, members of the House stopped the quibbling by loudly speaking out of turn and saying maybe they were just fighting with each other because of partisanship.
"Well, no one wanted to believe it was true," said Rep. Jose Serrano (D-NewYork), "but we thought it might be possible. That made all of us feel none too good, let me tell you."
It was at that point they agreed the president was better prepared to decide how billions of dollars would be spent on the military projects for the future. Only he had the close contact with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and other military officials, and only he knew what was planned for U.S. military actions next year.
The Democrat-controlled Senate quickly followed suit, approving the measure in record time.
"Our fellow representatives in the House are on the right track," said Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle (D-South Dakota). "We can't expect the president to stop doing all the things he has to do to come down here and ask us for money. He's busy making plans, and these plans affect the lives of millions of Americans. And if he's going to send them into battle, we better make sure he has the state-of-the-art equipment and funding they need."
The Senate roared with approval, although one minor voice in the background, a suspected Democrat, was heard to say, "Are you fucking crazy?"
On Saturday Daschle met with President Bush in the oval office with a giant blank check for a photo opportunity as Congress handed the president his open budget for 2003.
"Now just fill in the amount for whatever you think is fair, Mr. Bush," Daschle said, shaking hands with the president. "Keep our boys fighting as long as you think it's necessary. Just don't go buying anything all nutty like a Star Wars defense system or something," said Daschle with a laugh.
"It's not nutty, it really works," Bush snapped, turning red. "It can destroy 9 out of 10 nuclear missiles aimed at us by Russia agents or attacks from outer space."
Daschle then refused to give the check to Bush, saying he had to examine the date and make sure it was correct. He promised the check would be returned to Mr. Bush at a later time. the commune news just wants to crash on your couch until its girlfriend comes to her senses. Lil Duncan is the commune's Washington correspondent, and if that isn't enough, she's dynamite in the sack—the potato sack race at the company picnic, you sickos.
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 April 11, 2005
My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a NuisanceMy dearest Deidrebane, it pains me acutely to have to write you this column and expose our personal goings-on to the somewhat wider audience of the world at large, but I can't find any of our personal stationary and I'm not about to go tearing up the entire house when the computer is right here.
Simply put and plainly typed, your new children have become a nuisance.
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim these children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible. To the best of my knowledge your plumbing has not been snaked in a generation. And word on the street is that things are drier down there than a jerky stand in the Sahara. For the sake of decorum, I shall fail to go into the gruesome details, though believe me when I say the word is out.
I can only imagine how our first wave of real children feel about this latest batch of imposters, suckling at their mother's dry, unproductive teat. Wherever they are, Deidrebane, out in the world making their fortune or spending ours, it is surely a sad day for them. If I could remember their names, I would send my condolences by post card or...
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My dearest Deidrebane, it pains me acutely to have to write you this column and expose our personal goings-on to the somewhat wider audience of the world at large, but I can't find any of our personal stationary and I'm not about to go tearing up the entire house when the computer is right here.
Simply put and plainly typed, your new children have become a nuisance.
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim these children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible. To the best of my knowledge your plumbing has not been snaked in a generation. And word on the street is that things are drier down there than a jerky stand in the Sahara. For the sake of decorum, I shall fail to go into the gruesome details, though believe me when I say the word is out.
I can only imagine how our first wave of real children feel about this latest batch of imposters, suckling at their mother's dry, unproductive teat. Wherever they are, Deidrebane, out in the world making their fortune or spending ours, it is surely a sad day for them. If I could remember their names, I would send my condolences by post card or fruit basket, whichever we have in stock at the moment.
And no, I will not refer to these new hangers-on as "our" children. I fell for that trick once, many years ago, and shant repeat my folly. I'm quite convinced I never had anything to do with the first batch, and so I'm not about to piss my markings onto these latest home-invaders. These are your children, Deidrebane, and I've had enough of them playing "bakery" with my angel dust collection.
Firstly, there's the matter of your oldest new son, Montpellier, who I recently heard through the grapevine was kicked out of the Hentwistle Correctional Facility for Incorrect Boys. It had been my understanding that Hentwistle was nothing more than a nicely-named prison house, and if they're offering expulsion for misbehavior these days I fear for the message this sends to baddies and goodies alike. Montpellier must truly be a special child.
But the one sycophant I truly cannot abide is your new young son, Cartegney. This one is really the tops. Just last week he got into my gun collection, and you don't need a fertile imagination to discern what happened next. That's right; the child organized my guns by model number, then put them all away neatly in the gun safe! Now what am I supposed to do if I need to shoot something in a hurry?
I shall fail, I fear, not unlike your newest daughter Steenburgen when she tried to bake us an anniversary cake last week. You can say what you want, but if a child doesn't understand the concept of needing to bake the cake before hiding yourself inside, I say she has a valuable lesson to learn from the skin grafts. I know I've kept nothing but fond memories from the summer I spent as the Human Torch at a county fair in my youth, and not just because the unpleasant parts are either blacked out from my memory or masked by a thick curtain of Vicodin.
No my dear, these new children just aren't working out, and I think it's time they were sent back. Dig up your receipt and return them to the adoption cart at the mall or Kids "R" Us or wherever it was that you picked up these wayward moppets in the first place. I would rid our house of them myself, but my plot was already foiled by Cartegney, who informed me that the car I had loaded them all into did not have an adequate safety rating and regardless, he was too young to drive. So do what you must, Deidrebane. I won't have these precocious ragamuffins pointing out the folly of my planning. Now if you need me, I'll be in the den, watching the Crusades on pay-per-view. º Last Column: I Promised to Stop Smoking Crackº more columns
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|  February 21, 2005
Solid Gold A.M. RadioHave you listened to the radio lately? I'll bet you haven't. Modern statistics show most people stopped listening to the radio circa 1981, when video killed its star. I can hardly blame you. I listened to the radio a couple of weeks ago and was shocked by how bored I was. Apparently they are paying A&R companies and publishing firms by the song, since I only heard two or three during the course of the entire hour. And they weren't worth listening to, I'll tell you that. I'm not sure who Five for Fighting is, but if they play another song like the one I heard, good people, I'll take on all five of them.
It was a quite fortuitous day, since not long after I heard that radio ga-ga, my impending-wife ("girlfriend" is such a childish word) Ginger Baker asked me to hide some of her not-strictly-legal funds in my own private bank account. I'm always quick to step up when my impending-wife needs something, especially if it involves taking money off her hands. But then I thought: Whatever happened to the man who played Hop Sing on "Bonanza"? I'm not sure why I even mention that, I never found out and it has nothing to do with what I'm speculating on. My next thought, however, was that I should put Ginger's money to work for her—money just sitting around in a bank is about as prosperous as Oprah's man, Steadman.
This is why I bought an A.M. radio station. At last I can drive somewhere and listen to the radio again, always confident that there will be...
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Have you listened to the radio lately? I'll bet you haven't. Modern statistics show most people stopped listening to the radio circa 1981, when video killed its star. I can hardly blame you. I listened to the radio a couple of weeks ago and was shocked by how bored I was. Apparently they are paying A&R companies and publishing firms by the song, since I only heard two or three during the course of the entire hour. And they weren't worth listening to, I'll tell you that. I'm not sure who Five for Fighting is, but if they play another song like the one I heard, good people, I'll take on all five of them.
It was a quite fortuitous day, since not long after I heard that radio ga-ga, my impending-wife ("girlfriend" is such a childish word) Ginger Baker asked me to hide some of her not-strictly-legal funds in my own private bank account. I'm always quick to step up when my impending-wife needs something, especially if it involves taking money off her hands. But then I thought: Whatever happened to the man who played Hop Sing on "Bonanza"? I'm not sure why I even mention that, I never found out and it has nothing to do with what I'm speculating on. My next thought, however, was that I should put Ginger's money to work for her—money just sitting around in a bank is about as prosperous as Oprah's man, Steadman.
This is why I bought an A.M. radio station. At last I can drive somewhere and listen to the radio again, always confident that there will be something on the airwaves I want to listen to. Be it Up With People, Perry Como, or the Andrews Sisters, music across the ages, anything from any era with the only criteria that it's good, good, good—all Rok approved. Turn your block to Rok. Been a while since you heard "April Love," and you could really use it? It might be the middle of the night, and you desperately need to hear the Carpenters' "Top of the World"? I ask no questions. I'm only here to play you the music I want you to hear.
I'm also all for playing the newest artists I can find, assuming I like them. I've already played some soon-to-be hits by unsigned acts like Nina Santa-Maria, Cowboy Donnie Hirschfeld, and a promising young band called Jimmy Jeffers and the Fagtones. You like rap? Me neither. But you will, once you've heard some profanity-free rap by my good friend MC Vic Daniels and his DJ John Waterhouse. Anyone who can rhyme "lovin' fool" and "steno pool" is alright in my book.
Just to let you know, running a radio station hasn't been trouble-free for me. To my surprise, Ginger wasn't happy I decided what to do with her money. I tried reminding her I'm a man, but that only made her that much angrier. She is not quite as traditional as I am—but I accept her, flaws and all. We'll get over this hump, and get to the hump I prefer, before too long. In the meantime, I've got to find a way to make my A.M. radio station show a profit or she's going to close it down herself.
I remembered this problem sounded sort of familiar, then I recalled I'm in danger of losing my job because of low ratings, since they're trying to make the commune more profitable. I imagine Red Bagel should be able to help me turn my radio station around. I'm all for any changes he wants to make, except for the format, the songs I play, and my strict "no commercials" rule. º Last Column: Finger in Loveº more columns
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Quote of the Day“All the world's a stage, and unfortunately everyone's doing improv and they think they're so fucking funny. But you know what? LAME.”
-Bill ShacksperdFortune 500 CookieTop dentists all agree: You need teeth, so in short, allow the gargantuan redneck arguing over who did that "Life is a Highway" song to win the disagreement. Sometimes life feels like a TV show, and this week it feels like Red Shoe Diaries—the nudity is all too brief and all your sex will be simulated. Taste taser, motherfucker. Lucky moods are alright, not too bad/you?, feelin' frisky, and I seriously can't go on living no more.
Try again later.Top-Selling Halloween Masks| 1. | John Kerry w/ matching beret | | 2. | George W. Bush w/ matching quizzical look | | 3. | Zorro's cheaper cousin Steve-o | | 4. | Me, only better | | 5. | Eddie Murphy circa 1986 | | 6. | Gollum/Rupert Murdoch 2-year reusable mask | | 7. | Irresistible Sexy Man #34 | | 8. | Scary Scream guy stealing "The Scream" | | 9. | '57 Studebaker | | 10. | That guy over there | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 6/24/2002 Well hey, America! Who'd have thought you'd be back for part two of our entertainmentalicious Summer Preview? I mean, what are the chances of that? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were I'd have to bet the odds were close to 100-7-245-9. Needless to say, I'm damned impressed. I looks like you've held up your end of the bargain, so I'm going to do my best to make this EP the policiest yet. This month we're taking a gander at the ass-half of the summer movie releases and asking the age-old question: where's the manager with those ticket refunds?
In Theaters
Austin Powers in Goldmember
Everybody knows Mike Meyers is a sharp guy, but does anyone really think he can make a spoof of Jerry...
Well hey, America! Who'd have thought you'd be back for part two of our entertainmentalicious Summer Preview? I mean, what are the chances of that? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were I'd have to bet the odds were close to 100-7-245-9. Needless to say, I'm damned impressed. I looks like you've held up your end of the bargain, so I'm going to do my best to make this EP the policiest yet. This month we're taking a gander at the ass-half of the summer movie releases and asking the age-old question: where's the manager with those ticket refunds?
In Theaters
Austin Powers in Goldmember
Everybody knows Mike Meyers is a sharp guy, but does anyone really think he can make a spoof of Jerry Seinfeld's American Express commercials work for 90 minutes? Sure, there's a lot of Superman material to be mined there, but once you get past the "Invisible Man boinking Wonder Woman" joke I think it's going to get old fast.
The Crocodile Hunter: The Main Course
Now here's a concept we can all get behind: that inbred Aussie redneck finally gets his ass eaten by alligators. Or crocodiles, whatever. I don't think anyone's going to argue about snout shape when they're being thrashed around in the water with their nuts in a croc's vice-like grip. This is a film idea that was about as overdue as Britney Does the Bad News Bears. Not to mention it's got a great soundtrack that includes Men at Work's cover of Crocodile Rock and that hilarious parody song Who Let the Ducks Out? that you've been hearing about on the net.
K-19: The Widowmaker
I hate to be the bearer of shitty news, but it looks like James Belushi and that fuckin' dog are back again. This time the twist on the franchise is that the dog's got some kind of hyper space-rabies and has acquired a taste for blood, so Belushi's got to track him down (surely stepping in shit along the way) and cut the dog's heart out with a pen knife before burning it in a crematorium, blah blah blah. This trend-aping is supposed to scare us, but I'm about as scared as I was when I first saw the cover for M.C. Hammer's The Funky Headhunter album. Which is to say, pretty scared, but not for the right reasons.
Like Mike
Kidflick that probably sounded like a better deal before Tyson started head-butting people's fists and getting his ass handed to him on a regular basis. Regardless, bedwetting rap sensation Little Misogynist displays some charisma in his acting debut as a pint-size boxer who learns he can suddenly hang with the big boys when he discovers that all of his punches fall at crotch-level.
Men in Black Tubes
Hey, it worked as a Madonna video, so why not drag it out onto the silver screen and let the general non-MTV-watching public poke it with a stick, eh? That's what I'm imagining the producers thought to themselves as they sat around a martini breakfast at some swanky Hollywood gyp joint and tossed around ideas like midgets at an Arkansas bowling alley. Apparently this is one of the ideas that stuck, probably only because the rest of the producers were afraid to admit they'd never seen the video. Anyway, the final product turned out pretty arty, and no one can doubt that the Maternal Girl looks good in a wetsuit made out of plastic six-pack holder rings, but the plot lost me when they were whipping the little Chicano guy out in the rain.
Milo & Stitch
Lovers of all-animal films like Woofers the Cross-Country Dog and Barnyard Porno Volume 3 have been waiting thirteen long years for a sequel to the dark coming-of-age tale Milo & Otis, the undisputed king of the kitten-chucking genre of films. If any of them were betting that 2002 would be their year, then somebody owes them a handjob because Milo the cat is coming out of string-batting retirement for one more turn on the merry-go-round called Hollywood. Diehard fans will be happy to hear that wooden-acting little dog Otis isn't back for the sequel, thanks to his being eaten by a hippo on the set of a shampoo commercial back in the original film's heyday. He's been replaced by a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig named Stitch, who starts out the movie cute, in an ugly-little-pig kind of way, but by the end of the movie has eaten himself into some kind of belly-dragging nightmare destined to be left behind on a family camping trip. Surely the DeNiro of animal actors, Stitch goes all the way for this thinly-veiled Elvis bio-parable, with Milo lending a purring dignity as Stitch's backwoods huckster of a personal manager.
Minority Depot
Bad as it was, NBC's liberal-pleasing sitcom at least served a purpose when it was on TV. With a cast representing every racial group on the planet, plus one ignorant, backwoods, racist, sexist and certifiably ugly white dude, the show at least managed to clam up the social critics who argue that there aren't enough Korean weightlifting champion women on network sitcoms. But there is such a thing as throwing a dog too many bones, as will be evidenced when this turkey sucks its way over to the silver screen this summer. And a note to the Hollywood bigwigs in charge of this one: if you think you can pass off Tom Cruise as ugly, you've obviously never been to Pennsylvania.
The Powerpuff Girls
A trio of New Jersey High School broads discover that a whole new world opens up to them when they spend their Sweet 16 birthday loot on breast enlargement surgery. Teaches the powerful lesson to young girls everywhere that money can't buy you love, but it can buy you a nice rack and a lifetime of popularity and marriage proposals, not to mention a sweet gig as a trophy wife. I tell you, chicks have the life.
Rain of Fire
Jesus Christ, somebody want to tell me who pissed off Prince so bad? Last time I checked he was a soft-spoken boogie machine with a flair for offensive asswear, now I turn around and he's some kind of Hollywood angel of death? I thought I was going to get some hot, half-naked dancing mulattos, not Nine Inch Nails, The Movie. I don't want to start any rumors, but I think somebody must have keyed his little red corvette something awful.
Road to Perdition
There are about three people on the planet who think you can make a Road… picture without Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, and apparently Tom Hanks is one of them. And whoever thought the snore-inducing berg of Perdition, Florida was an exotic locale on par with Bali, Hong Kong and Zanzibar needs to have his dentures rinsed off. Hanks and Paul Newman do their best to keep the laughs coming as a couple of numb-nutted mafia hitmen, but this series was old back when Bob Hope still had that "new guy" smell.
Stuart Little 2
Talk about timing. Everybody's been waiting since they were five for that lying little duck to get what's coming to him, and it looks like the sky's about to fall on Stuart Little. We all love to see a little comeuppance dished out to some hothead who never learned the lesson of The Boy Who Cried Wolverine, but I'll personally be in line just to see how far the technology of duck-bashing has come since the Daffy-blasting days of my youth.
Whew, America, I think that's about that. I hope your summer is full of big-screen thrills and painless sprints to the restrooms during the dull scenes. Check back in a month and who knows what you'll find in this spot? I'm serious, I'm not even sure myself. But if I know Hollywood, they'll keep churning out the review fodder and we should get along fine. One more thing America: I don't know if Jennifer Connelly is going to get naked in The Hulk, so you can stop emailing me about it any time now. What am I supposed to be, her girlfriend slash confidant or something? Just because you roll with the commune doesn't always mean everybody takes your calls all the time, or even if you're a commune writer pretending to be from E! Online. See you next time!   |
