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January 16, 2006 |
A smorgasbord of the images that were littered all over 2005, with Paul Lynde as Hurricane Katrina in the center square. ey, remember 2005? It seems like only yesterday it was everywhere, sweetie… the fashions, the fads, the music (which you can download for free). Everybody was watching Lost and Googling Linsay Lohan. This year, it’s repeats of Lost and the Pitt-Jolie baby. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget those more innocent times.
The world started 2005 believing the biggest events to come would be the trial of Michael Jackson and the debut of Star Wars, Episode III, but were they ever wrong. Goddamn, sweetie, were they wrong.
Even if the big Star Wars finale was the biggest grossing movie of the year, the movie everyone was talking about was gay cowboy non-musical extravaganza Brokeback Mountain. A studio-financed My Own P...
ey, remember 2005? It seems like only yesterday it was everywhere, sweetie… the fashions, the fads, the music (which you can download for free). Everybody was watching Lost and Googling Linsay Lohan. This year, it’s repeats of Lost and the Pitt-Jolie baby. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget those more innocent times.
The world started 2005 believing the biggest events to come would be the trial of Michael Jackson and the debut of Star Wars, Episode III, but were they ever wrong. Goddamn, sweetie, were they wrong.
Even if the big Star Wars finale was the biggest grossing movie of the year, the movie everyone was talking about was gay cowboy non-musical extravaganza Brokeback Mountain. A studio-financed My Own Private Idaho, the film featured a classic lovestory all Y-chromosomed up for today’s modern metrosexuals. I, for one, loved this shit out of it, hon.
It sure beat the hell out of the “biggest movie of 2005,” as everybody promoted it—only to have it being the biggest underwhelming movie of all time: King Kong. The movie under-performed to all expectations, possibly due to somebody leaking a copy of the movie to the Internet and an early cut of the film to the theaters in 1933. Remember 1933? Prohibition and flappers? That’s another column, sweets.
The country went crazy for TV, too. America was desperate for Desperate Housewives and lost our minds for Lost. We also continued the C.S.I./ Law & Order craze as they collectively dominated three-five nights a week of televisions. And how about those new television shows we all went crazy for? That’s right—there were none.
And remember the music everyone was listening to in 2005? Neither do we. There was some Kelly Clarkson, some Kanye West, and 50 Cent mumbled some shit here and there. Where’s the club beat, bitch? Notice I didn’t say bi-atch? Too toooo 2004.
As for the news itself, there was no bigger story than the sad destruction of partyzone and Girls Gone Wild unofficial headquarters of New Orleans at the inhuman hands of heartless bitch Hurricane Katrina. As if that wasn’t enough, several frontin’ hurricane wanna-bes also tore shit up elsewhere.
The other big news stories were the continuing death of innocents for the unnecessary war in Iraq, but we leave that coverage to the no-spin zone doctoring of Bill O’Reilly. We were sadder about the death of one of the 20th century’s most pivotal religious figures, Johnny Carson. And how about the others we lost? Bob Denver, Chief Justice William Rehnquist, Lou Rawls, and John Paul Pope, some kind of Christian prophet.
After years of a firm status quo, 2005 saw the shake up of not one, but two Supreme Court justices retiring (one for good) to open up the doors to the future’s arch-conservative oligarchy.
And who can forget the unforgettable catch-phrases of 2005? “Michael Jackson’s Jesus Juice”? “Cronyism”? “Mark McGwiroids”? None of these quite caught on with the national consciousness. No, 2005 was truly a year when nothing stuck in your brain. But the commune did take a severely long vacation, and that was da bomb, baby-doll. Let’s hope for more of that in 2006. the commune news thinks we should have a call-in election and give everybody the option of bringing back 1976 next year—wasn’t that a fantastic year? Who says we can’t do it again? Stigmata Spent is a kick-ass correspondent and born-again virgin.
 |  Popular TV Clown Robertson Delivers Weekly Outrageous Banter Ethiopians unanimously elect Colonel Sanders
Poll: If election was held today, Bush would steal it
 Border Patrol Agents Recruited for Iraq, Since Border Patrol Worked So Well |
Conservative Woman Found he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called “right-wing woman” is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, she’s completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks. The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel. Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings he new television season barely underway, Fox executives are already lamenting the low ratings for their most calculated new show of the season, Desperate Alien Prison Escape. “We don’t understand it,” lamented stunned network executive Roger Bacon. “This show capitalized on every hot trend currently on TV. We even had swearing. It should have been the biggest hit of all time. Fuck.” Fox’s latest ratings hopeful follows the travails of Juk, a member of a secret alien invasion conspiracy who intentionally gets arrested for sleeping with a bored suburban housewife in order to help his cousin escape from jail, using a detailed map he had tattooed on his scrotum, which due to his alien anatomy is located where a human being’s eyelids would be. Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
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 July 22, 2002
Columnisting is for SuckersI'm sure when you ask little kids what they want to be when they grow up, a lot of them say "dildo model." And who could blame them? But the sad truth is that, thanks to unrealistic expectations built up by the movies and popular songs, there are also plenty who would answer "Internet columnist" instead. Well kids, I'm here to tell you that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Internet columnisting, that is, I'm sure being a dildo model is pretty awesome.
The dirty little secret of the industry, the thing they don't tell you until it's too late and you've already picked your career, is that Internet columnisting involves a lot of writing. And not just all at once at the beginning, I'm talking about every week, whether you feel like it or not. Sometimes twice a week if Red Bagel has his computer confiscated by the Feds, which happens just as often as you'd expect. And you know, the job's not all just about hitting home runs and dating supermodels, either, like the Internet columnists on TV. You have to get your hands dirty. One time a scary-assed rat tried to make off with the disk I'd saved that week's column on and I had to club the damn thing with a telephone receiver until it gave up the goods. And if you think that's bad, try explaining to Ramon Nootles why you used his phone to kill a rat. As if I want rat shrapnel all over my own phone.
So, if Internet columnisting is a fool's utopia, what should kids today aspire to be? I've given it some...
º Last Column: Thanks For the Memories, and the Seafood Medley º more columns
I'm sure when you ask little kids what they want to be when they grow up, a lot of them say "dildo model." And who could blame them? But the sad truth is that, thanks to unrealistic expectations built up by the movies and popular songs, there are also plenty who would answer "Internet columnist" instead. Well kids, I'm here to tell you that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Internet columnisting, that is, I'm sure being a dildo model is pretty awesome.
The dirty little secret of the industry, the thing they don't tell you until it's too late and you've already picked your career, is that Internet columnisting involves a lot of writing. And not just all at once at the beginning, I'm talking about every week, whether you feel like it or not. Sometimes twice a week if Red Bagel has his computer confiscated by the Feds, which happens just as often as you'd expect. And you know, the job's not all just about hitting home runs and dating supermodels, either, like the Internet columnists on TV. You have to get your hands dirty. One time a scary-assed rat tried to make off with the disk I'd saved that week's column on and I had to club the damn thing with a telephone receiver until it gave up the goods. And if you think that's bad, try explaining to Ramon Nootles why you used his phone to kill a rat. As if I want rat shrapnel all over my own phone.
So, if Internet columnisting is a fool's utopia, what should kids today aspire to be? I've given it some serious thought over the years I've spent working at the commune, while looking through the want ads and building a potato gun in my spare time. And I have to say that if you think you can pull it off, go for being the Pope.
What in the hell did the Pope ever do to nail down a gig so sweet? I mean, there are a lot of famous guys out there with pretty cushy careers, from Ed McMahon to the Gerber baby and whatnot. But even the president has to walk around and wave and sign shit every once in a while. What does the Pope do? Wear a hat? Omar Bricks is all about getting paid to wear a fucked-up hat, people. Give me a break.
Not that Pope is the only cushy job out there. I have to imagine being a professional downhill skier would be pretty hard to beat; after all, gravity is doing all the work for you. Nice job if you can get it. And where was I when the TV bozos walked up to Robin Leach on the street and asked him if he wanted to host Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous? Exactly what kind of qualifications do you need to walk around and point at shit, like "Hey, nice drapes!" or "Holy shit, you've got six cars!"?
And you just know he's crashing at all of these fancy pads when the owners are out of town. Sometimes when they have shots panning across the house to show all of the swanky shit these rich folks have lying around, you can see Robin in the background, looking for a spare key under the doormat. Not that I blame him, if I was there I'd pick one of those big-assed houses and just move from room to room every day. It's not like those people can keep track of what's going on in each of their eight thousand rooms all the time. And if they were that worried about it, they'd put keycard scanners or something on the doors like hotels did after they got wise to my scam.
So, to sum up, if you're staring down the barrel of a chance to be the Pope, I say shit yeah, go for it. But if you're like me and the church has filed some bullshit restraining order against you, you could do worse than being a TV host or operating the projector at a porno house or something along those lines. There are a lot of options out there. And by the way, if some talk-show guy like Leno or Chevy Chase or whoever comes up to you on the street and hits you up like "Hey man, I could use a sidekick to laugh at my jokes on TV, what are you doing tonight?" I say jump on that gravy train and hang on for dear life. I'll give you great odds that you never regret that career move when you're raking in the dough for sitting on your ass, chuckling and pulling the occasional finger. Only an idiot would turn that down, and God knows Omar Bricks won't make that same mistake twice.
Bricks out. º Last Column: Thanks For the Memories, and the Seafood Medleyº more columns
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|  February 18, 2002
The Golden PotionOnce upon a time
Or so goes the line
I heard tell a notion
Of a gold magic potion
Its power mysterious,
A bouquet quite delirious
It filled all who drink
With the charm of a king
The strength of ten oxen
For lifting or boxing,
The smell of a flower
And ten times the power,
Eyes that would dazzle
And a wit that would frazzle
The smartest of Greeks,
Send them crying for weeks.
It came in a vial
Gold like a sun's smile,
And gave off an odor
More than peculiar
And all who came near
Fled quickly in fear
And assumed without stirring
The vial contained urine
One day was a man
Who wandered this land
With no sense of smell
And then no way to tell
What lurked in the beaker
That lay near his sneakers
Despite better judgment,
He drank deeply of it,
And found all the gifts
From the previous list
Bestowed upon him
Much to his chagrin
Yet no one believed
And quickly took leave
Despite all his pleas
They said he drank...
º Last Column: The Man in the Baloney Suit º more columns
Once upon a time
Or so goes the line
I heard tell a notion
Of a gold magic potion
Its power mysterious,
A bouquet quite delirious
It filled all who drink
With the charm of a king
The strength of ten oxen
For lifting or boxing,
The smell of a flower
And ten times the power,
Eyes that would dazzle
And a wit that would frazzle
The smartest of Greeks,
Send them crying for weeks.
It came in a vial
Gold like a sun's smile,
And gave off an odor
More than peculiar
And all who came near
Fled quickly in fear
And assumed without stirring
The vial contained urine
One day was a man
Who wandered this land
With no sense of smell
And then no way to tell
What lurked in the beaker
That lay near his sneakers
Despite better judgment,
He drank deeply of it,
And found all the gifts
From the previous list
Bestowed upon him
Much to his chagrin
Yet no one believed
And quickly took leave
Despite all his pleas
They said he drank pee º Last Column: The Man in the Baloney Suitº more columns
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Milestones1987: A practical joke backfires, resulting in Roland McShyster being put in charge of Orion Pictures.Now HiringNeighbor. Must be unpredictably silly and capable of conjuring up outlandish schemes week after week. Applicant will be judged based on appeal to uncreative mass audiences and spin-off potential. Non-white, homosexual a plus.Top 5 Worst Ways to Start a Letter| 1. | Dear Cum-Dumpsters... | | 2. | Remember you said you wouldn't lend me money even if I had abducted your family? Well… | | 3. | Fellow Grand Dragons... | | 4. | Long time, no lawsuit... | | 5. | Boy, when you moved away without telling me where you were going I thought I'd never find you… | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Melora Gray 10/27/2003 Deuceslapped so hard his beak was loose.
But Bruce and Luce they called truce,
and drank a can of blue moose juice.
The goose he drank it through a sluice.
Norman Snoran, small recluse,
lives deep inside a red caboose.
He's solitary, one could deduce,
because his swearing is profuse.
Though some think that just an excuse.
Sorta Spellman, allow me to introduce,
a girl for which I have no use.
Some think her sullen, some obtuse.
I can forgive the way she wears a noose,
but not the day she betrayed me for produce!
Zeus is taller than a spruce,
an attribute he puts to misuse.
Storks and stiltwalkers, he does seduce,
until to tears they do reduce,
when they find his...
slapped so hard his beak was loose.
But Bruce and Luce they called truce,
and drank a can of blue moose juice.
The goose he drank it through a sluice.
Norman Snoran, small recluse,
lives deep inside a red caboose.
He's solitary, one could deduce,
because his swearing is profuse.
Though some think that just an excuse.
Sorta Spellman, allow me to introduce,
a girl for which I have no use.
Some think her sullen, some obtuse.
I can forgive the way she wears a noose,
but not the day she betrayed me for produce!
Zeus is taller than a spruce,
an attribute he puts to misuse.
Storks and stiltwalkers, he does seduce,
until to tears they do reduce,
when they find his love diffuse.
Allow me to induce
a sentiment as dark as mousse,
for characters prone to abuse.
The reasoning may be abstruse,
but just to ponder: What the deuce?   |