|  | 
Limbaugh Insists Media Playing Up 'White Drug Addict' AngleOctober 13, 2003 |
West Palm Beach, Florida Snapper McGee Talk show host Limbaugh, addressing allegations at Philadelphia broadcaster's convention, falls for reporter's old "who wants free speed?" trick.
Limbaugh answered accusations from reporters with his trademark, "You know how liberals are…" before launching into his defense. Addressing reporters by telephone from a minimum-security rehab facility, the talk show host and political pundit, irrelevantly 52, claimed the story was exaggerated.
"You know how liberals are. They run the media, of course, we all know this, and there's nothing they love more than bringing down white people. They were behind such evil as the Clinton presidency, the success of Donovan McNabb,...
harming conservative hard-ass Rush Limbaugh is angry with the American media's harping on his admission of painkiller abuse this week, claiming the focus on his addiction stems from the media's attempt to promote a white Republican drug addict.
Limbaugh answered accusations from reporters with his trademark, "You know how liberals are…" before launching into his defense. Addressing reporters by telephone from a minimum-security rehab facility, the talk show host and political pundit, irrelevantly 52, claimed the story was exaggerated.
"You know how liberals are. They run the media, of course, we all know this, and there's nothing they love more than bringing down white people. They were behind such evil as the Clinton presidency, the success of Donovan McNabb, and my leaving ESPN. Though, frankly, those SportsCenter guys were starting to get on my nerves," announced Rush, following quickly with the proclamation he had lost 5 pounds during the statement alone.
The revelation of illegal substance abuse, or let's say misappropriation of not-quite-legal pep pills, come at a bad time for Limbaugh, who quit sports network ESPN after statements he made about the unearned success of quarterback Donovan McNabb sparked controversy. The media, the tubby conservative claimed, engineered his exit by blowing his words out of proportion, stupid as they might be, and they were trying to further humiliate him by taking his usage of thousands of Oxycontin and Lorcet pills over the years out of context.
"You know how liberals are," said the husky speed addict.
"Common sense allows us to put things into perspective. These are prescription pills, they're just not prescribed to me. It's not like I'm doing blow or shooting heroin into my eyeballs. I'm not some ghetto crackhead. I'm a popular Republican talk show host, and the media loves to see conservative white guys get the book thrown at them for trivial infractions. If I was not famous and just a regular white guy, like a federal judge or CEO of a major multinational, I would just have this reduced to a fine and no one would care. But because I'm outspoken and everyone knows me and I'm always right, the liberal media wants to stick it to me, just to erase stereotypes."
Limbaugh, a former fat man now in a modestly chunky man's body, did not find much support with former colleagues at ESPN following the leak of the investigation.
"We are all shocked, it's as best as we can put it," said ESPN spokesperson Robert Fulgham. "We hired Rush three weeks ago. Knowing his history of working in talk radio and making light of liberals, democrats, feminists,
radicals, and basically all non-white people, we thought him to be a terrific sports analyst and commentator who would make broadcasts more lively. The last thing any of us at ESPN ever expected was this kind of insensitivity. When it comes to a quarterback in the year 2003, color is simply not an issue."
Fulgham was politely reminded the issue at hand was actually concerning Limbaugh's use of prescription pills before continuing.
"Oh, yeah," said Fulgham. "Everybody knew he was a big fat pill popper. Did you think he was exercising to kick that ass into shape? C'mon. He would chew handfuls of hydrocone in between five or six Baby Ruths. He had intravenous
coffee intake. It's not really a secret if you work with the guy. You don't want to get me started on those SportsCenter guys and what they do around the place." the commune news is happy to wish Rush Limbaugh a speedy rehabilitation, and looks forward to the great tell-all book it'll lead to. Bludney Pludd is some kind of correspondent, and frankly, we thought we had gotten rid of him, but we're not like pissed or anything to see him still around. Not really pissed or anything.
 |  Conditions at Walter Reed Upgraded to "Nightmarishly Clive Barker-esque"
Rick Perry: "No, Goddammit, I'm not that Madea guy, stop asking that."
Punk-ing of William F. Buckley even more dull than predicted
 High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire |
Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. Congress Lobbied for More Material to Complete Brando Memorial Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population |
| |
| 
 January 16, 2006
Eat Shit, New Year'sNew Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever.
Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes.
This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a...
º Last Column: The Red Badge of Adulthood
º more columns
New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever. Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes. This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a shitload of dogs running together like in the old Chuck Wagon commercials. I had to rush and do a half-ass job of setting a parade float on fire just to get home in time to watch the Times Square countdown, a yearly tradition for lazy, television-watching sons of bitches everywhere. Now, no one needs a call from CNN to catch the breaking news that New Year's television sucks big wet titty. Any time they schedule over two hours of air time for a ten-second event, you know there's going to be more crappy filler than a case of Winky's, those off-brand Twinkie knock-offs Foghat always wants every year for Christmas. About four seconds after the ball drops, they unleash an endless cavalcade of morons strategically positioned around Times Square, standing around saying shit like "There sure are a lot of people here… yep…" I haven't seen that many uncomfortable silences on TV since they gave that narcoleptic Chevy Chase his own late-night show. After the depressing spectacle of listening to Dick Clark drunk his way through the ball-dropping countdown, I was in heavy need to distraction, so I went quick to the pantry for the case of Safeway beer I'd been saving all year for the occasion. Two minutes after the drop was over, Dick was still on stuck on twenty-seven, and I was really glad I'd saved the beer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs, ladies and gentlemen, and I spilled an entire case of beer on the couch. Some would say that's what I get for opening all the cans at once, but you save time your way, I'll save it mine. I just wish I'd noticed that the beer was spilling sooner, since the couch swelled up so much it pitched me onto Foghat's loveseat, and I accidentally touched way more dog underbelly than I care to admit. Now Foghat won't even look me in the eye, which makes going to his room to use the Super Nintendo especially uncomfortable. That's right about when the neighborhood mob showed up to get their mailboxes back, which I'd been driving around collecting all night so I could open up my own Mailboxes ETC and hook up some sweet business tax breaks for 2006. I had to take a break from juicing my couch to talk the mob out of setting my neighbor Hamms on fire, because he had about 400 mailboxes lined up in his front yard like some kind of surreal drive-in theater (I didn't want to fuck up my grass). It all ended okay though, since I was able to convince the mob that the mailbox caper was exactly the kind of thing my other neighbor Mitch would do, and he wasn't home, so I had everybody over to my place to help suck the beer out of my couch. Which may sound like a great time, yeah, but actually it was kind of weird. So screw New Year's. Bricks out. º Last Column: The Red Badge of Adulthoodº more columns
| 
|  May 14, 2007
Return to the Bermuda Shorts TriangleOnce again, sir, I am confounded by a mystery by which I've already been confounded. For I have returned to the place of my last great defeat—Brunsley, Idaho, well known to all its inhabitants and supernatural buffs as the Bermuda Shorts Triangle.
Before you foul-mouthed skeptics can say, "Fuck this bullshit" and return to searching for more Internet info about that movie with the Dakota Fanning rape scene, I urge you to think about this: What would you do if there were a 12-block radius in a moderate-sized town where your finest undergarments mysteriously disappeared? That's right, such a place really exists, and it's in Brunsley, Idaho. Seldom can a man, or especially an attractive woman, walk from the Bed, Bath and Beyond to the Citgo gas station with their underpants untouched. Even the most conservative among you will find you go from securely hammocked to freeballing in record time, with no answer as to where your Fruit of the Looms have gone.
I first stumbled across this mystery in 1998, just before I founded the commune. In fact, all of my first columns were about this puzzler, though I decided to withhold my claims before I had any solid proof because I wanted to write a kick-ass bestseller about the phenomenon, and didn't want any competition drawn to my big moneyhole by an ill-timed commune column. If only I had known how few people read the commune, despites its being available for free on the Internet, I would have thrown...
º Last Column: Dreams Like Butterflies
º more columns
Once again, sir, I am confounded by a mystery by which I've already been confounded. For I have returned to the place of my last great defeat—Brunsley, Idaho, well known to all its inhabitants and supernatural buffs as the Bermuda Shorts Triangle. Before you foul-mouthed skeptics can say, "Fuck this bullshit" and return to searching for more Internet info about that movie with the Dakota Fanning rape scene, I urge you to think about this: What would you do if there were a 12-block radius in a moderate-sized town where your finest undergarments mysteriously disappeared? That's right, such a place really exists, and it's in Brunsley, Idaho. Seldom can a man, or especially an attractive woman, walk from the Bed, Bath and Beyond to the Citgo gas station with their underpants untouched. Even the most conservative among you will find you go from securely hammocked to freeballing in record time, with no answer as to where your Fruit of the Looms have gone. I first stumbled across this mystery in 1998, just before I founded the commune. In fact, all of my first columns were about this puzzler, though I decided to withhold my claims before I had any solid proof because I wanted to write a kick-ass bestseller about the phenomenon, and didn't want any competition drawn to my big moneyhole by an ill-timed commune column. If only I had known how few people read the commune, despites its being available for free on the Internet, I would have thrown caution to the wind, as well as my columns, and published them as a warning to all underwear-lovers who might wander into the area. I discovered it quite by accident, when I attended Brunsley's annual Halloween Dunk-the-Witch contest. I'll save all the anticipation by saying it turned out to be a woman in a costume; but while my search for proof of horrible Wiccans ended up a dead-end, when I went to buy a drink at a local cafĂ© they call Starbucks here, I found my BVD's didn't make it across the street with me. I went searching for pocket change for my $3.50 cup of coffee and found the fabric between my digits and my goodies a lot thinner than expected—only pocket stood between my finger and my boys. I knew I hadn't taken them off, so of course, I looked to the simplest answer—an underpants pickpocket. But the locals told me of the Bermuda Shorts Triangle, a 12-block perfect circle in which all manner of undergarments mysteriously disappear. Or as my colleague Dennis at the Wendy's in that area summarized, "Yeah, people end up losing their skivvies all the time around here." Of course, the name is something of a misnomer, since it's not a triangle-shaped area, and if you're wearing Bermuda Shorts they actually make it through the area without being stolen—underwear only appear fair game. But you have to admit, it's damn catchier than "The Circle of Panty Theft." The first time I passed that way, I was close to launching the commune, and had to return to attend to that business after losing over $400 in underwear in my attempt to solve the riddle. But now the commune is successful, by my own narrow definitions, and I can at last return to figuring out where these shorts are going, maybe even why. Thanks to my painstaking statistics as of last time, I can tell you panties are taken more frequently than male briefs, and boxers are taken least frequently while thongs seem to disappear more than anything else. Expensive underwear and cheap underwear tend to be taken indiscriminately. I only really tested this underthing-theft on myself, but my survey of victims revealed women were targeted more frequently than men, even men wearing thongs, but it seemed to happen across gender and age lines. You've got to admit, outside of discovering where these undershorts are disappearing to, why they are being taken, and how to prevent it, I've practically got this case fully answered. Like many people that work here, I'm starting to wish I had never founded the commune. Sure, disseminating the truth to the masses is an important job, maybe the most important of them all next to the man who maintains erections on pornographic movie sets. But still, it keeps me up at nights knowing the great mysteries—like who's stealing the underwear in Brunsley, Idaho by the Bennigan's—are going unsolved because I chose this different path. º Last Column: Dreams Like Butterfliesº more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“I never met a man I didn't like, want to kill.”
-Dill "California Angst" WongersFortune 500 CookieYou will fall in love with a new douche this week, a fact that unfortunately has nothing at all to do with feminine hygiene. Try to pay more attention to your figure: word on the street is you're upgrading from "pear-shaped" to "sack of shit-y." You will finally come to understand the phrase "fifteen men on a dead man's chest" this week, thanks to an unfortunate dogpile mishap. Your lucky perfumes: Colonic for Men, Goat's Dong, Eau Du Crapper.
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 6/1/1999 Well hello there and welcome back to Entertainment Police, returning after an unexpected hiatus. Did you know it's illegal to dub betamax copies of "The Golden Child" and sell them on the street? Neither did I! What a country we live in! I tell ya, you let these Fascists into power and it's straight downhill from there, no foolin'.
Anyway, I'm glad to see you're back! We've got a whole cache of new movies to review this month, all awash in the Post-Oscars afterglow. And who can forget the wonders of this year's ceremony? I, personally, was touched to see Mussolini bring home the best actor trophy. What a sign of how things have changed in this country. Just between you and me, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to see Hitler wade into the romantic comedy waters in the...
Well hello there and welcome back to Entertainment Police, returning after an unexpected hiatus. Did you know it's illegal to dub betamax copies of "The Golden Child" and sell them on the street? Neither did I! What a country we live in! I tell ya, you let these Fascists into power and it's straight downhill from there, no foolin'.
Anyway, I'm glad to see you're back! We've got a whole cache of new movies to review this month, all awash in the Post-Oscars afterglow. And who can forget the wonders of this year's ceremony? I, personally, was touched to see Mussolini bring home the best actor trophy. What a sign of how things have changed in this country. Just between you and me, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to see Hitler wade into the romantic comedy waters in the coming year. You heard it here first!
Hollywood's at it again, and their trend this quarter is the Boardgame Movie. I know what you're thinking, how can anyone top the critical and commercial smash "Jumanji"? Nevertheless, good old Hollywood is giving it a shot, with the recent releases "Life" and "GO". Needless to say, neither of the new films measures up to Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece "Clue: The Movie", but they're still respectable efforts. Time to take a look at what else is vying for your entertainment dollar this month:
In Theaters Now:
The Phantom Menace
This highly-anticipated film-noir treatment of a children's favorite immerses us in a world of recrimination and revenge, reminding me of both "The Crow" and "Terms of Endearment". Believe you me, this isn't your father's Dennis the Menace. After Mr. Wilson chains Dennis to the bumper of his Buick and drives it through a hardware store, the Phantom Menace returns from the grave seeking to settle the score and strike a blow for overbearing little brats everywhere. A rollicking fun ride with eye-popping special effects. Starring David Spade as Dennis, Joey Lawrence as Joey, and Hal Holbrook as Mr. Wilson.
The Mummy
A bone-chilling horror flick striking at the heart of every person's fear of former child stars running amuck. Lost in Space star Billy Mummy holds the city of Fresno in the grips of terror as he seeks to be cast in anything at all. This one really hits close to home, and leaves you thinking: "My friends and family are safe from the rash actions of Hollywood wash-outs... or are they?" Serious sequel potential here.
Message in a Bottle
Former Police frontman Sting marks his foray into the world of feature films with this washed-out chick flick about an alcoholic's crush on a spunky bartender. Kevin Costner is his usual saucy self as the pinball repair man who brings them together.
The Deep End of the Ocean
Former Police frontman Sting marks his foray into the world of feature films with this washed-out chick flick about an alcoholic's crush on a spunky bartender. Kevin Costner is his usual saucy self as the pinball repair man who brings them together.
Never Been Kissed
What, did I piss off the Goddess this month or something? Sheesh. Drew Barrymore stars in this upbeat teen fare marred by it's utter lack of "bullet-time" photography.
10 Things I Hate About You
Michael Moore throws subtlety completely out the window in this further attempt to prove that the chairman of GM is a jagoff. We hear ya, Mike! But the truth is, as long as they keep pumping out the Cheerios, who really cares?
Now on Video:
Fanmail
Everybody's favorite female rappers, TLC, get to talk about sex with Tom Hanks for about two hours in this upbeat foray into the world of dirty chatrooms and cybersex.
Come On Over
Shania Twain's screenwriting debut features her and Melissa Ethridge cast in the starring roles as a paroled thief and a high-priced hooker who plot to steal millions from the mob in this visual thrill ride. Directed by the Warner Brothers.
No Limit Top Dogg
Man, a lot of musicians in the movies this month! Snoop Dogg himself stars as the voice of Bernard the Beagle in this animated gem about the adventures of a farm dog lost in the big city. Fantastic soundtrack includes Snoop Dogg's blistering cover of the Chuck Wagon song.
New Albums:
Meet Joe Black
Yet another of the original members of Wham! inflicts a solo album upon us. This one is a shameless Beatles rip-off that would make even Oasis blush.
Gloria
How many different ways can the Mighty Mighty Bosstones cover this Van Morrison classic? You could probably count on the back of the CD case but I prefer to leave it open as a Zen kind of thing.
The Waterboy
Is it just me or are these Gangsta Rappers running out of cool-sounding handles?   |
