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Bush Plans to Send Troops to Moon by 2018December 8, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans Conspiracy theorists allege if you study the picture close enough you can see the ghost of the moon screaming in terror at the impending arrival of U.S. troops.
The buff and sexy White House brain trust released information this week that, among other considerations for the president's closing year of his first, and likely only, term were staging the most expensive and colorful war yet, with the space people. Or, the president's representatives allowed, other countries seeking to colonize the moon.
That's right: The moon. Nick-named in the documents accompanying the press release, "The 51st state," which is rumored to have pissed Puerto Rico off, but come on, you know they were just stringi...
hild, space enthusiasts and sci-fi nerds everywhere cheered the president on when White House officials announced this week the president was "seriously considering" a space war. Defense contractors reportedly wet themselves as well.
The buff and sexy White House brain trust released information this week that, among other considerations for the president's closing year of his first, and likely only, term were staging the most expensive and colorful war yet, with the space people. Or, the president's representatives allowed, other countries seeking to colonize the moon.
That's right: The moon. Nick-named in the documents accompanying the press release, "The 51st state," which is rumored to have pissed Puerto Rico off, but come on, you know they were just stringing you guys along—you all may dress to the nines, but the your GNP is lower than Utah's.
The policy, which is being "sincerely given a look," comes in response to a combination of presidential inspirations, including fear of China's recent feat of sending a Chinese guy into space, and another marathon of Starship Trooper DVD viewings by the commander-in-chief.
"The president," said an anonymous White House official who prefers French-cut underwear, "has always wanted to be a bold leader, and to strike preemptively against off-worlders looking to take advantage of our limited intergalactic colonization program. That's a failing of the Democratic administration that preceded us. But Mr. Bush says by the end of his term we'll have regular flights to the moon. And by the end of his clone's term in 2018, we will have established an impressive military force on the moon. With lasers."
Señor Bush is also not ruling out the idea of low-income housing on the moon, to help deal with the projected astronomical damage to the middle class expected to be caused by another term of his presidency.
"I've got plans for the homeless," Bush said in response to a question during a press conference last week, rubbing his hands together and laughing maniacally. Most reporters attributed the enigmatic statement to a possible new "eat the homeless" program or turning them into low-cost diesel fuel somehow, but it does seem to jibe with rumors of a homeless colony on the dark side of the moon, dubbed in White House documents "the Pink Floyd Province."
"The homeless are people," said the same unnamed White House source, while working on his glutes. "They are people just like us, and they want to work. And when we have established a moon rock mine, we'll definitely need all the slave labor we can get. Did I say 'slave'? I meant inexpensive labor. I mean minimum wage. Labor."
If the moon space fort idea pans out, the prez will likely begin making requests to Congress for allocation of outer space funding, including up to $15 billion for advanced space program designs. An additional $2 billion of that may be requested for construction of a one-man presidential shuttle, with more than half of that going to design a rugged-looking flight suit. the commune news has no interest to go into space when there's still so many people down here who want to go to war with us. Stigmata Spent is more than a little interested in flights to the moon, and the chance to be a founder of the Ten-Thousand Mile High Club.
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Duke Prosecutor Disbarred, Accepts New Position as National Scapegoat High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
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 April 29, 2002
LeeGood people, whatever I said last week, optimistic it up by about 200%. I am feeling much, much better. Maybe it's the smell of fresh cauliflower cooking on Camembert's stove, maybe it's the neighbors and their loud enunciation of Shakespearian dialogue through the walls. Or maybe it's the fact my disruptive energy has crashed into a train of good vibes, as Lee says, and that's what I'm leaning toward.
Lee has yet to be wrong about things like this. It's Lee's opinion that somewhere along the line, in the past year, I've had a burp of negative karma that has totally blemished my natural green. Why? Quit asking me. Ask Lee. He's the genius that knows all of this stuff.
I just asked Lee and he said he's not quite sure, it could be any number of things. Most likely it revolves around my moving my office into the commune headquarters, where as before I worked out of my Dodge parked in front of my house. That was just to be a temporary solution until I could build an addition onto the house, then the addition I built would not stand up and frequently collapsed on me and the cat. I decided it was either hire a professional builder of additions or move into the commune offices, so I did the latter.
And there was the problem. So Lee says. There is a vortex of anti-vurga here that affects some people the wrong way. Namely me and Lee. I'm not quite sure what vurga is or what it's for, but Lee assures me he had not made it up and it exists, and...
º Last Column: Win A Dream Date With Camembert
º more columns
Good people, whatever I said last week, optimistic it up by about 200%. I am feeling much, much better. Maybe it's the smell of fresh cauliflower cooking on Camembert's stove, maybe it's the neighbors and their loud enunciation of Shakespearian dialogue through the walls. Or maybe it's the fact my disruptive energy has crashed into a train of good vibes, as Lee says, and that's what I'm leaning toward.
Lee has yet to be wrong about things like this. It's Lee's opinion that somewhere along the line, in the past year, I've had a burp of negative karma that has totally blemished my natural green. Why? Quit asking me. Ask Lee. He's the genius that knows all of this stuff.
I just asked Lee and he said he's not quite sure, it could be any number of things. Most likely it revolves around my moving my office into the commune headquarters, where as before I worked out of my Dodge parked in front of my house. That was just to be a temporary solution until I could build an addition onto the house, then the addition I built would not stand up and frequently collapsed on me and the cat. I decided it was either hire a professional builder of additions or move into the commune offices, so I did the latter.
And there was the problem. So Lee says. There is a vortex of anti-vurga here that affects some people the wrong way. Namely me and Lee. I'm not quite sure what vurga is or what it's for, but Lee assures me he had not made it up and it exists, and mine is being scratched, picked at, violated, and rubbed raw by the anti-vurga vortex I spoke of before. Well, I don't need to hear any more. As soon as possible I'm moving out of the commune offices and making an office at home.
It will be difficult, I'm sure, saying Camembert and my apartment is too small is an understatement, an understatement so large it will not fit in our miniscule apartment. I could not even squeeze it into the space between my bed and the radiator that frequently sets the bed on fire. But what else can I do? Bagel and company won't shell out the money to buy me space across town, they've already tried to sell my space on numerous occasions to tourists. I'll have to make room in the apartment, according to Lee.
Lee suggests that with a matter of such urgency I can afford to make space in the apartment. He said I should diagram the entire apartment on a piece of paper and sort out what can be moved where, and I should do it as soon as I get home. But he won't help, he has meditation this afternoon and doesn't want to get riled up.
Frankly, I don't see what I'm supposed to move and where I should move what I move. There's my bed, my television set-up, my grand piano, my standing closets, my sitting closets I usually refer to as drawers, my portable bathtub, the game of Twister—it's been out so long I'm certainly not going to put it away now, I'll just want to play again tomorrow—and the vaulting horse. Not to mention my workout space. A finely-planned house of cards it all is, I move one piece and everything tumbles down. I definitely cannot fit a desk, computer, and second workout space into my room.
Camembert's room! Of course, why didn't I think of it before I sat down and wrote all the above out? I'll simply annex Camembert's room and make it my office. It might be hard to convince Camembert at first, but he'll come around. I'll put a positive spin on it, that's what Lee always suggests. People are suckers for positive spins, he told me right after borrowing the money for that ass-reduction surgery that was so vital to his five-year plan.
Camembert will be more than happy to give up his room once Lee explains it. He loves Lee living on our couch so far, I heard him telling Lee so yesterday. As it is Camembert's room is a bulky waste of wheelchair rolling space, safety rails and bars and Camembert's personal effects. I can make his bed into a bunkbed and everyone will be happier, it will be like camping. As long as I get the bottom bed for I don't have to roll out of bed and land on that dangerous wheelchair at three in the morning.
I'm starting to look forward to this. Lee's right, a positive spin makes any disaster seem much more tolerable. º Last Column: Win A Dream Date With Camembertº more columns
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| August 9, 2004
Camembert in LoveThings could not be worse, even if I had a head made of cheese in the middle of Amsterdam. Or a head made of pot, if you believe those rumors about our European neighbors. Camembert has fallen in love, making him even more intolerable than usual.
Wait, for as they say, it gets worse. You remember my friend Girl Elvis, who set me up with prescription drugs not long ago, and whose real name escapes my memory? Yes, she's the culprit. Damn her and her sexy manly-yet-feminine sneer, and jaw-dropping rendition of "Suspicious Minds."
As good as her word, she dropped by our Flatbush residence a mere three weeks ago in search of a place to lay her head, expecting I would simply open up my doors because I had made such a promise two weeks before. Audacity aside, I decided to make good on my word, because she looks very strong under those sequined sleeves. I had no idea my life would be turned upside down, and not in a "cute illegitimate kid moves into swinging bachelor apartment" sitcom way.
Instantly Camembert took a shine to her. Perhaps it was that alluring pompadour, or her bassy way of introducing herself when she walks into a room: "Hey, ladies and gentlemen, I'm an impersonator of Elvis Presley." They have to say that now, for legal reasons, she informed me. What man could resist her? Me, that's who. The homoerotic undertones alone have kept me up at nights. But not Camembert, apparently he's exceedingly secure in his sexuality, or some...
º Last Column: Lost Vegas
º more columns
Things could not be worse, even if I had a head made of cheese in the middle of Amsterdam. Or a head made of pot, if you believe those rumors about our European neighbors. Camembert has fallen in love, making him even more intolerable than usual.
Wait, for as they say, it gets worse. You remember my friend Girl Elvis, who set me up with prescription drugs not long ago, and whose real name escapes my memory? Yes, she's the culprit. Damn her and her sexy manly-yet-feminine sneer, and jaw-dropping rendition of "Suspicious Minds."
As good as her word, she dropped by our Flatbush residence a mere three weeks ago in search of a place to lay her head, expecting I would simply open up my doors because I had made such a promise two weeks before. Audacity aside, I decided to make good on my word, because she looks very strong under those sequined sleeves. I had no idea my life would be turned upside down, and not in a "cute illegitimate kid moves into swinging bachelor apartment" sitcom way.
Instantly Camembert took a shine to her. Perhaps it was that alluring pompadour, or her bassy way of introducing herself when she walks into a room: "Hey, ladies and gentlemen, I'm an impersonator of Elvis Presley." They have to say that now, for legal reasons, she informed me. What man could resist her? Me, that's who. The homoerotic undertones alone have kept me up at nights. But not Camembert, apparently he's exceedingly secure in his sexuality, or some nonsense.
"What do you think of Loretta?" he asked me over breakfast one morning. I launched into an angry diatribe about Loretta Lynn, so-called "Coal Miner's Daughter," before I remembered it was the birth name of Girl Elvis. I then told him exactly what I think of her, that my opinion was strong in no certain direction. "I think she's snazzy," he said.
Disgruntled noise here. He used to think I was snazzy. Or even if he didn't, it was easier to imagine he did when he didn't talk so much. I preferred Camembert when he used to come home quietly from wherever it is he goes and wheels himself into his room, to stay there until I wake him up in the middle of the night to go duck hunting, or whatever escapade has captured my imagination as of late. Now, there's no guarantee he will even be in his room when I want to surprise him! He may be sitting on the couch with his new girlfriend, watching Blue Hawaii. I will not have it. Happiness should not go on under my roof if I'm not getting a slice of it.
Still, I cannot simply kick Girl Elvis out. Again, she looks very strong. I should try to find a way to foil their romance before it begins. I have talked to her about it, and she assures me her intentions are honorable. Or actually, she said, "Camembert… is that the guy who sleeps on the floor in the hallway?" At which point I correct her, no, that's Eugene, I found him in the attic when I bought the house. She insists Camembert or, "that poor little wheelchair kid," is not her type. I think it's all a ruse to further confuse me, and I will not have whatever it is she's making me have.
It's a sad day for Rok Finger when the world doesn't revolve entirely around him and his ever-widening circles. I will command Camembert's full attention once again, or die trying. Or someone might die, at any rate. º Last Column: Lost Vegasº more columns
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Quote of the Day“We have nothing to fear but Fear itself. Fear is, of course, my rabid pit bull infected with the plague.”
-Franklin de RooseveltFortune 500 CookieA watched pot never boils, and rust never sleeps. Doubt every instinct this week. A friend says sugar cookies turn you queer, for real. Lucky numbers 10, 10, 32, and 1.
Try again later.Top Enduring 2004 Election Scandals| 1. | Bush didn't really win; they forgot to count the comatose vote | | 2. | Identical twins voted twice, ignoring "1 Face, 1 Vote" principle | | 3. | Every 13th vote discarded as "unlucky" | | 4. | Too many precincts used antiquated paper ballots | | 5. | Too many precincts used newfangled electric voting machines | | 6. | 10,000 Florida voters cast ballots for dead man: John Kerry | | 7. | Too many military absentee ballots were marked for Bush: Now that's just stupid | | 8. | No paper trail for southern state "applause-o-meter" polling technique | | 9. | Oh sweet Jesus, Bush really won! | | 10. | Eskimos kept away from polls by sheer geography | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/16/2002 Howdy Doody, America.
I'm sorry folks. That was just a pathetic attempt to sound upbeat. I should give you people more credit than that. We all know where we find ourselves, plum in the middle of the doggy-style days of autumn, a movie wasteland so barren that even the dead horses look bored. And that's no small challenge. Luckily for me, the less time people spend in theaters, the more time they spend writing letters to Ask Roland, except for the select few primates who actually try and write to me from inside the theater, so I end up with illegible butter-stained napkin letters crumpled in my mail box, covered in ants and other sundry vermin. I get less of those now, which is the one thing I like about the Fall. So let's delay no further and get to padding this...
Howdy Doody, America.
I'm sorry folks. That was just a pathetic attempt to sound upbeat. I should give you people more credit than that. We all know where we find ourselves, plum in the middle of the doggy-style days of autumn, a movie wasteland so barren that even the dead horses look bored. And that's no small challenge. Luckily for me, the less time people spend in theaters, the more time they spend writing letters to Ask Roland, except for the select few primates who actually try and write to me from inside the theater, so I end up with illegible butter-stained napkin letters crumpled in my mail box, covered in ants and other sundry vermin. I get less of those now, which is the one thing I like about the Fall. So let's delay no further and get to padding this column out like a Kate Moss swimsuit, shall we?
Q. Hey Roland, what's it hangin? Listen, I don't really have a movie question, but I was wondering if you could hook me up with that Violet Tiara chick who writes for the commune. She's hot! And smart! Does she dig dudes in the military? Cuz I could enlist, I'm pretty sure. Unless they've still got that rule about having to be able to touch your toes. Hey, that's my other question: Do they still have that rule? Thanks in advance Roland, we'll name our first kid after you.
Elmer DeBarge, Spankle, MO
A.Thanks for the letter Elmer, and it was smart to include a picture of yourself so I have something to show to the police. Though they are going to wonder why it has half of a People magazine What's Hot/Who's Not column printed on the back of it, and what you're doing with Heath Ledger's girlfriend. As for Ms. Tiara, I'm sorry to say she's too young for you, however old you are. Her parents are also super quick with a restraining order, which is silly since she's mostly a tease anyway. Or that's what I hear, from… people.
Q. Rooollaaaaand! Wasaaaaaaaap! Man, is that ever going to get old? I don't know, but I hope not. I love that joke. Love it! Anyway man, I got a question for you here. Uh… shit. Nope, I guess not. I had one when I started this but I totally spaced it when I was doing that "Wasaaaaaaap!" thing. Sorry dude, I'll get back to you.
Rodney Poster, Belmonte, CA
A. Believe it or not, these were the two best letters I received all week. You should have seen some of the stupid ones. Anyway, thanks for your letter, Rodney. Thanks a lot. Thanks for single-handedly making this the worst installment of Ask Roland ever. Good God, without your help I might have overestimated the future of humanity. Thankfully I am no longer in that danger, and I now realize that we're all screwed. Thanks again.
Alright, that's the movie bell a-ringin':
In Theaters
The Bang Your Sisters
Oh man, what a funny idea for a movie! No, wait, that's Animal House. What's this boiled old hobo boot doing up on my screen? The only way you're going to laugh during this tale of the most unfortunately named band in the history of rock is if you've just come straight from an actually funny movie and are still laughing when this one starts. Actually, to be honest, the movie had one big laugh in it. It came when this guy came back from the concession stand with his hands full of a giant soda and a big bag of popcorn, and when he went to sit down in the dark he kind of half sat on the arm of his seat, which caused him to panic and flail his arms up, dumping the whole bag of popcorn right on his head. Classic. Though I suspect that probably could have happened during any movie and therefore I wouldn't place too much credit for that laugh on the film itself.
Barbieshop
It's a great idea, I'll give them that. Line up a smooch on the ass for whoever dreamed this one up: a quartet of hard-nosed bone thugs inherit a doll store when their grandfather dies, and now they have to trade in their trash-talking street ways and spend their days explaining the difference between Malibu Barbie and Ventura County Barbie to spoiled little six year-old white girls from Riverside. Stick Chris Rock and Chris Tucker in the actor holes and you'd have 'em rolling in the isles, probably from laughing. Hell, stick Chris Katan and Chris Farley in a tanning booth for a few days and it could still work. So who do they get to star in this turkey? Ice Cube, Ice-T and Urkel. Good job, guys. Way to shoot the comedy goose in the head.
Igby Goes Down
Everybody's favorite Australian cartoon iguana is here to teach kids about sex and sexuality, the Aussie way! Though the animation is crude, it still gets the point across, and these guys know how to draw some sexy kangaroos. Or, as the Aussies call them, Wildebeests. While the film may be too disturbing for older viewers, kids will find it a delightful romp, in both meanings of that double-Nintendo. Delightfully fake Australian accents are provided by voice-over legends Susan Saranadan, Bill Pullman, and that guy who barfs when he eats.
Stealing Harvard
Heist movies don't have any sense of ambition these days. Everybody's got some master plan to steal a million kruktillion dollars so they can live out their golden years in some HEPA-filtered paradise where nobody speaks English. Bo-ring. When's the last time anybody ever tried to steal something really valuable, like Disneyland? Now that's a caper worth plotting for 45 minutes. How in the world would they pull that off? I'm hooked. I want to know, you know? Sign me up for a front-row seat and a box of Nards. Sadly, this heist flick doesn't quite get it right, but it's a novel effort. I'm not sure why somebody would get all hot and bothered about stealing a crusty old East Coast University, so there were some believability issues there. Maybe you could make a mint printing off phony diplomas and selling them on the Internet. I'm pretty sure that must have been what they were thinking. But I shouldn't have to work so hard to figure it out, that's the movie's job.
Trapped
Picture the scene. You find yourself stuck in some drafty country cottage with no telephone and no way out. You think you're alone, but then you turn and see… Courtney Love! Yikes! You spin around in the other direction, and it's… Charlize "Don't Call Me Ashley Judd" Theron! Shit! Could it get any worse? Yes, it could! Kevin Bacon's in the crapper! And he's wearing those awful jogging shorts that reveal far too much and turn you off of Bacon Bits for the rest of your life. Who's trapped with them? Here comes the twist: it's the audience. Yep, two hours with these undesirables may scar you for life, but they say it's really cathartic when you actually get to leave the theater.
And that's a wrap, folks. All right, go on, get out. Uncle Roland wants to be alone in the dark room for a while. Don't ring for dinner, I'm just going to be in the music room, playing one note on the piano over and over again. Now all I need is to find a music room somewhere.    |
