|  | 
Meyers Denies Being Andy RooneySeptember 1, 1999 |
Toronto, Canada Noogie Townsend/AP Andy Rooney: Real?
Reportedly, the producers of 60 Minute...
tar of such Hollywood Blockbusters as So I Married an Axe Murderer and Wayne's World 2, Canadian funnyman Mike Meyers today denied all reports that 60 minutes mainstay and purported crystallized fart Andy Rooney is actually one of his performance pieces. Many have taken it for granted for years that the impossibly out-of-touch and pathetic Rooney character was one of Meyers’ best latex-and-bravado creations, ranking with the likes of Wayne Cambell and Dr. Evil among his most popular bits. Naturally, it came as a great shock to millions of Americans to hear Meyers, rather incredulously, denying any involvement in the Rooney project. The comedian even seemed surprised that such as suggestion might be made. Reportedly, the producers of 60 Minutes themselves were confused by Meyers’ statements, and have called an emergency meeting that may go on late into the night. Our sources indicate that an upcoming The Best of Mike Meyers video has been postponed and will be re-edited in light of today’s announcement. This turn of events leaves many unanswered questions for Americans young and old. Was Meyers’ announcement merely a publicity stunt aimed at boosting the ratings for 60 Minutes? Is it possible that Meyers created the character and later, growing bored with the project, passed the torch to another comedian? Could this explain the disappearance of Joe Piscapo? And finally, the most troubling of all possibilities: Could Andy Rooney be real? Many would sooner believe in the existence of a Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. It seems clear that many people, from small children to the incredibly aged, from construction workers to cultural anthropologists, will be up late tonight pondering that very question. the commune news would like to thank Budweiser for bringing back the Party Ball. Selma Brotnik has joined the commune staff thanks to this country’s silly quota system. Welcome aboard, Selma!
 |
Big Oil: Gas-electric hybrid cars sales rise among sissies, gaywads
New iPad Screen Has One Pixel for Every Douchebag Waiting in Line Somewhere
Zimmerman: "Jesus Christ, you act like this is the first time I've shot a black kid."
Todd Phillips Hung Over Hangover 2
|
Guilty: Libby Takes Blame in Plame Name Game Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole’s Body Finely Aged Winemaker Ernest Gallo Corked Failure of Sirius Radio Blamed on "You Can't be Sirius!" Ad Campaign |
| |
| 
 February 2, 2004
Blow WholeFirst off, we need to get it right out in the open that I had nothing to do with that huge whale that blew up in Taiwan last week. Yes, I've received all the congratulatory post cards, phone messages, and boxes of chocolate everyone has been sending, and I thank you all for those. But I'm sorry to say the "Way to go, dude!" is not rightfully mine this time around. I wasn't even in Taiwan last week, and before you start going on about remote controlled detonators and the like, let me also add that I didn't blow up any large mammals last week that I'm aware of either. I'm sure there are still some Omar Bricks fans out there searching for some loophole where whales aren't really mammals or they're related to the platypus or some bizarre shit like that, or maybe I was sleep-pranking again, but trust me on this one guys. Just let it go. Somebody else Bricksed that whale, I spent all last week in line at the DMV getting my death certificate revoked. More on that later.
Make no mistake, I'm completely flattered that when a giant dead whale explodes in the middle of a busy Taiwanese street half a world away, showering pedestrians and shopkeepers in smoky whale gore like some kind of fucked up dead fish piñata, the name Omar Bricks springs immediately to mind. It makes me feel like a lifetime spent in the pursuit of excellence has really paid off. Good to know I'm on the "Who the fuck??" A-list.
But anyone who reads this column closely should know that ever...
º Last Column: A New Hope
º more columns
First off, we need to get it right out in the open that I had nothing to do with that huge whale that blew up in Taiwan last week. Yes, I've received all the congratulatory post cards, phone messages, and boxes of chocolate everyone has been sending, and I thank you all for those. But I'm sorry to say the "Way to go, dude!" is not rightfully mine this time around. I wasn't even in Taiwan last week, and before you start going on about remote controlled detonators and the like, let me also add that I didn't blow up any large mammals last week that I'm aware of either. I'm sure there are still some Omar Bricks fans out there searching for some loophole where whales aren't really mammals or they're related to the platypus or some bizarre shit like that, or maybe I was sleep-pranking again, but trust me on this one guys. Just let it go. Somebody else Bricksed that whale, I spent all last week in line at the DMV getting my death certificate revoked. More on that later.
Make no mistake, I'm completely flattered that when a giant dead whale explodes in the middle of a busy Taiwanese street half a world away, showering pedestrians and shopkeepers in smoky whale gore like some kind of fucked up dead fish piñata, the name Omar Bricks springs immediately to mind. It makes me feel like a lifetime spent in the pursuit of excellence has really paid off. Good to know I'm on the "Who the fuck??" A-list.
But anyone who reads this column closely should know that ever since I blew up that dead horse at the fair a few years back, I haven't been able to get my hands on anything more explosive than a packet of Pop Rocks, scout's honor. Whoever said that reputation is the motherfucker of investigation knew what he was talking about, it's like I'm a walking background check or something. I don't know who blew up that whale, if it was a member of my Taiwan fan club or some long-lost chinky relative who always blended in at the family reunions, but you've got to admire his slanty-eyed spunk. Most people would have stopped at stuffing a stick of dynamite up a carp's ass, but this guy was thinking big. Really big, I hear this was some kind of freakish Shaq whale with a five-foot dork, no kidding. I heard that most of the people who were hurt by flying whale meat didn't duck because they were too busy yelling "Look at that whale cock!" to their friends when it blew.
The official report, of course, is that some kind of nasty gasses built up inside the whale carcass while they were transporting it from the morgue over to the whale graveyard, causing the thing to blow Orca dramatically all over Tainan street right at rush hour. Right, and swamp gas reflected off a unicorn's ass explains the Kennedy assassination. The government guys who are in charge of making that shit up are the same dudes who wrote Ishtar. I trust them about as far as I can throw up. Which is pretty far, but still.
According to commune fact machine Griswald Dreck, whales don't even get gas, thanks to a diet that's heavy on soup and light on Tostada Bel Grandes, if you know what I mean. And when you think about it, the way Griswald has, it really starts to make sense. Can you even imagine what the world would be like if whales had gas? Those fucking things are huge. You'd be reading about ocean liners being capsized by fart bubbles every day in the paper. It'd be just like Titanic, except it would smell even more like rotten eggs.
Well, shit if we're not out of space already, looks like we'll have to wait until next time to explore the issue of why the DMV won't issue a driver's license to somebody who's legally dead. Turns out that "officially" being killed in a car explosion a year and a half ago has a down-side to go with the tax advantages. Go figure.
Bricks out. º Last Column: A New Hopeº more columns
| 
|  March 22, 2004
Let the Buyer BewareHere's the facts, folks: I did not, nor have I ever tried the Waffle Messiah.
Any implication that I did try the Waffle Messiah, or in any way endorsed the Waffle Messiah or purchase of that kitchen appliance, was unintended.
I did not at any time mean to encourage that someone should actually purchase the Waffle Messiah or that it would be a welcome addition to any kitchen. When I made the statement during the infomercial that "it would make a welcome addition to any kitchen," I was, in fact, referring to a Mr. Coffee machine though I had made no previous reference to it. The fact that I was standing in close proximity to the Waffle Messiah and gesturing in what some could consider to be the direction of the Waffle Messiah that lay on the counter in front of me was purely accidental. Just a bad camera angle as I was actually gesturing in the direction of the restrooms off-camera, where I was planning to go once the taping of the infomercial was done.
The following statements I did say were intended to refer to the Waffle Messiah:
"It cooks so fast!"
"How much is that thing?"
"You can't get a waffle iron for less."
"Does that mean it's healthier?"
"And we'll tell you how to get one by calling this number."
"It's white!"
"Classic design."
The following statements may have been misconstrued to refer to the Waffle Messiah when in fact they were referring to Mr....
º Last Column: Living on Borrowed Dime
º more columns
Here's the facts, folks: I did not, nor have I ever tried the Waffle Messiah.
Any implication that I did try the Waffle Messiah, or in any way endorsed the Waffle Messiah or purchase of that kitchen appliance, was unintended.
I did not at any time mean to encourage that someone should actually purchase the Waffle Messiah or that it would be a welcome addition to any kitchen. When I made the statement during the infomercial that "it would make a welcome addition to any kitchen," I was, in fact, referring to a Mr. Coffee machine though I had made no previous reference to it. The fact that I was standing in close proximity to the Waffle Messiah and gesturing in what some could consider to be the direction of the Waffle Messiah that lay on the counter in front of me was purely accidental. Just a bad camera angle as I was actually gesturing in the direction of the restrooms off-camera, where I was planning to go once the taping of the infomercial was done.
The following statements I did say were intended to refer to the Waffle Messiah:
"It cooks so fast!"
"How much is that thing?"
"You can't get a waffle iron for less."
"Does that mean it's healthier?"
"And we'll tell you how to get one by calling this number."
"It's white!"
"Classic design."
The following statements may have been misconstrued to refer to the Waffle Messiah when in fact they were referring to Mr. Coffee, my co-host of the program Brad Winchell, or something I was thinking about in my mind:
"Makes 'em delicious!"
"I'm convinced!"
"Grease-free cooking!"
"And it's 100% safe!"
"I'd buy one!"
"I love it, Brad!"
"Sure makes you think."
"Classic design."
"Order one now."
I do not claim complete innocence in the recent Waffle Messiah fiasco. In fact, I allowed the production and multiple airings of an infomercial that intentionally misled the viewer to believe I, Clarissa Coleman, beloved celebrity and former star of Who's Your Daddy?, in some way supported or encouraged the buying of the dangerous Waffle Messiah product. My heart goes out to all those kids in the burn ward and I pray, metaphorically, for their quick recovery.
In the meantime I encourage anyone feeling down about the whole thing to go out there and pick up Time-Life's 70's Groove-A-Funk Collection featuring all your favorite hits, though I should clarify that when I say "all your favorite hits," I in fact have no way of knowing what your favorite hits are and the phrase refers to generally favored songs of the 70's era.
Caveat emptor.º Last Column: Living on Borrowed Dimeº more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“My love is like a red, red wiiiine… go to my heaaaad… make me forgeeet… Wait. Sorry. My love is like a red, red rose… just like eeeeevery night has its daaaaaw- awawaaaan… Just like eeeevery cooowboy… Fuck.”
-A.D.DobbsFortune 500 CookieClowns don't hate you, they just feel sorry for you. Your "Don't Worry, Be Slappy" series of self-help books finally broke the five-copy sales barrier this week, and just got you sued by the estate of Slappy White. This week's lucky strikes: Clover-Workers' Union, ump didn't see ball careen off batter's jock and through strike zone, killed them all while they were dreaming about killing you, threw your ex-wife's severed head down lane on accident.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Ronald Reagan:
One-Sided Interview | | 2. | Uncle Macho's Carbless Rock Soup | | 3. | The Diarrhea Weight Loss Miracle | | 4. | 10 Questions for Marcel Marceau | | 5. | the commune's 100 Best Norwegian Rap Songs Ever | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Ferdinand Gaybeard 9/19/2005 Ferdinand Gaybeard Rides AgainThe Polynesian nightskunk is not a toy, gentle reader. The Polynesian nightskunk is known as the black jester of the night for good reason, and is to be taken seriously, times two. Do not attempt to dance and frolic with the Polynesian nightskunk, for it is a jape you will soon regret, should you live long enough to even do so.
It will not fetch, it will not beg or roll over, and it most certainly will not snatch kibbles from betwixt your pursed lips, mid-leap, like some kind of trick pony. It will not walk on hind legs for a reward, nor will it growl "I rove rou!" in an adorable skunk voice when tempted with treats. These are mere fantasies, fanciful reader, hatched from Hollywood dreams and children's storybooks, while the grim reality of the Polynesian nightskunk is far...
The Polynesian nightskunk is not a toy, gentle reader. The Polynesian nightskunk is known as the black jester of the night for good reason, and is to be taken seriously, times two. Do not attempt to dance and frolic with the Polynesian nightskunk, for it is a jape you will soon regret, should you live long enough to even do so. It will not fetch, it will not beg or roll over, and it most certainly will not snatch kibbles from betwixt your pursed lips, mid-leap, like some kind of trick pony. It will not walk on hind legs for a reward, nor will it growl "I rove rou!" in an adorable skunk voice when tempted with treats. These are mere fantasies, fanciful reader, hatched from Hollywood dreams and children's storybooks, while the grim reality of the Polynesian nightskunk is far darker indeed. The Polynesian nightskunk will, in actuality, bite off your toes like it were eating peppermint, but this is only where its cruel efficiency of death begins. Toes snapped off like ticket stubs, you will stand in shock as the nightskunk squeezes into your foot hole and shimmies up your leg, inside the skin, devouring at its leisure your most delectable internal morsels and sweetmeats. Gobbling and snarfing, nibbling and slurping, the Polynesian nightskunk will make its way up past your knee, through the thigh, and pause only slightly to enjoy your spicy genitalia before embarking on the grand feast that is your most inner innards. Except for the spleen. For some reason, nightskunks hate the spleen. Weird. How do I know all this? Oh, simple, naĂŻve reader. How joyus it must be to carry such innocence wrapped in muslin within your lovely cranium. Imagine the terror with which you would greet each day knowing that you, yes YOU! had once danced with the nightskunk in the pale moon light, living not only to tell the tale, but to recall it in fevered dreams nightly! It's true! I was but a young man then, fresh out of a tiger cage in Laos and making my way across the sunken, mysterious expanse of Polynesia, which back then was known only as the Land of the Dark Corners. It was there, anxious readers, there that I crossed paths with this atheist-maker, this furry black Satan known to the locals only as "Gnup!" ("Shiii-skunk!"). Yes, the nightskunk ambushed me as I was sitting on a tree stump, enjoying a tin of sardines. I froze, mid-fish, as the darkness before me congealed into the form of nature's most dastardly malfeasance. It was then that my bladder sprang immediately into action, unleashing a wet torrent of plentiful panic piss as the nightskunk reared back on two legs. Waiting patiently for my gushing display to cease, the nightskunk rocked back and forth, flaring its deadly nostrils. After a time, the nightskunk settled back down onto four legs for a moment to rest, then reared back up as my ceaseless bladder continued to evacuate. Eventually the nightskunk had to move to slightly higher ground to avoid being wetted by my growing empoolment, but this suited him finely, providing an even more impressive perch from which to display his menacing qualities in statuesque fashion. Eventually I was done pissing myself, and the skunk took this opportunity to strike. Thankfully for me and my continuing adventures, the skunk slipped in piss and broke its neck, letting out a frustrated little squeak at the moment of impact that caused my overstressed bowels to disengorge a week's worth of feces in less than one half of a second. It reminded me vividly of the time, years ago, when I stumbled across a den of vicious ducklings and I shit my pants so hard my shoes came untied.   |
