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 September 26, 2005 |
Too-close-to-the-beachfront property in Louisiana is hit hard again by a recent hurricane, while another famous Hurricane (inset) demonstrates one of several ineffectual hand signals to keep from getting shot by the police.  
With a proven record of preventing catastrophes on U.S. soil, the Department of Homeland Security seemed the natural choice for protecting the populace from acts of God as well as acts of A...
he United States Department of Homeland Security has been given the difficult task of dealing with the recent spate of hurricane attacks and, after weeks of standing back and assuring the public everything would be alright, settled into the more familiar job this week of arresting non-white people, taking into custody New Jersey boxer Rubin "Hurricane" Carter. The arrest, according to Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff, is only designed to verify Carter is in no way connected with recent Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, or any other potential natural disaster threatening the country.
With a proven record of preventing catastrophes on U.S. soil, the Department of Homeland Security seemed the natural choice for protecting the populace from acts of God as well as acts of Allah, but some are already accusing the government-sanctioned Klan of overreacting with the Carter arrest. After all, according to detractors, Carter is a 5’8" middle-weight African-American man in his late ’60s, and doesn’t even have a windspeed, compared to the 150 mph windspeed of some of the recent hurricanes that have dealt damage to the Gulf Coast area.
"No one’s accusing Mr. Carter of anything," Chertoff told the press, "at least not yet. But if the safety of the American people is in question, I have no qualms about unlawfully detaining an old black man until the danger subsides. And if it means reducing the amount of disaster-related coverage cluttering up season premiere week, I believe the American people will back me up on this."
It isn’t Carter’s first famous bout with the law. The one-time contender for the middleweight boxing crown was jailed 30 years by a racist judicial system that convicted him of murder and robbery based on false testimony and a sham trial. It is, however, the first time Carter has been mistaken for a category-2 tropical storm, but these days he isn’t surprised at all by what white lawmakers will attempt to get away with.
The Department of Homeland Security refused to give a projection for how long they will hold Carter, and exactly what they hope to find out from him in regards to other weather-related assaults on the U.S., and they reminded the media that thanks to legislation passed after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, they are no longer accountable for anything they do, so shut up or they just may come after us next.
But if there’s anyone not sitting down for Carter’s legally-questionable detainment, besides Carter, it’s America’s celebrity community, always quick to champion a very public cause of injustice. While Bob Dylan was too busy writing new songs for Victoria’s Secret commercials to come to Hurricane Carter’s aid once again, his son, Jakob Dylan, did offer to fill his dad’s monstrous shoes.
"I’m organizing a benefit concert to pay for Mr. Carter’s legal bills, and we’re pushing to get him a new trial," said the forever-in-dad’s-shadow rock singer. When reminded Carter had not yet been brought to trial once on any recent charges, Dylan conceded it was true, but they had to have something to say in between songs at next week’s benefit concert.
"We’ve got everybody coming to help out," said Dylan. "Nash is going to be there—that’s right, of Crosby, Stills & Nash fame. We couldn’t get Willie Nelson for this one, but we did get Nelson, Ricky’s boys. And I’m in talks right now to get Patrick Swayze to perform a revamped version of his hit, ’She’s Like the Wind,’ but we’re in disagreement over the busfare. Keep your fingers crossed. We’ll get you out of this, hurricane!"
And if a B-grade roster of celebrities like that doesn’t keep Hurricane Carter fighting mad at the system, nothing will. Fight the power, brother—again. the commune news has never been accused of a crime we didn’t commit, which we tend to chalk up to our fervent crime-committing behavior. Shabozz Wertham has been accused of helping himself to all the donuts before anyone else can get him, but we swear it’s not a racist thing—he’s the one wearing all the glaze.
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Terrorists been quiet lately… too quiet
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Iran's plan to renew nuclear program inspires hard-ons with 24 producers
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Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
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 September 5, 2005
The New Anne Frank DiaryYou may be asking yourself what do I mean by my slightly smug title? Am I mocking the tragically short and tortured life of a little girl killed in a massive campaign of genocide? No. I embrace Anne Frank's courageous spirit and indomitable will more than ever, now that I have had to spend secretive nights with my own "family" here at the commune, hiding out from imaginary government ninjas, fabricated Al Qaeda terrorists, and any number of made-up enemies that forced us to take to the road in recent weeks.
As a fresh reminder (let's pretend we're on the second part of a two-part sitcom, and you need filling in), the commune staff, sans Ritalin poster child Omar Bricks, fled their home offices weeks ago under the presumed threat of international terrorists trying to kill us. Why? Who knows. Perhaps in Red Bagel's belabored mind, he pictured some insidious plot to turn the commune offices into a potent missile to strike at government and financial targets. But we overran our attackers, whom I personally witnessed were carrying weapons that looked remarkably like toys, including a lime-green Super Soaker, and took to the road.
This is a natural reaction to a possible terrorist attack, of course: Load all your staff and whatever equipment you can carry into a Partridge family-style bus and drive west as if you're following the Grateful Dead. Reporting the incident to the police, federal agents, or the Department of Homeland Security would only tip your...
º Last Column: Highway to Hell
º more columns
You may be asking yourself what do I mean by my slightly smug title? Am I mocking the tragically short and tortured life of a little girl killed in a massive campaign of genocide? No. I embrace Anne Frank's courageous spirit and indomitable will more than ever, now that I have had to spend secretive nights with my own "family" here at the commune, hiding out from imaginary government ninjas, fabricated Al Qaeda terrorists, and any number of made-up enemies that forced us to take to the road in recent weeks. As a fresh reminder (let's pretend we're on the second part of a two-part sitcom, and you need filling in), the commune staff, sans Ritalin poster child Omar Bricks, fled their home offices weeks ago under the presumed threat of international terrorists trying to kill us. Why? Who knows. Perhaps in Red Bagel's belabored mind, he pictured some insidious plot to turn the commune offices into a potent missile to strike at government and financial targets. But we overran our attackers, whom I personally witnessed were carrying weapons that looked remarkably like toys, including a lime-green Super Soaker, and took to the road. This is a natural reaction to a possible terrorist attack, of course: Load all your staff and whatever equipment you can carry into a Partridge family-style bus and drive west as if you're following the Grateful Dead. Reporting the incident to the police, federal agents, or the Department of Homeland Security would only tip your hand that you're important enough to be a terrorist target. And I'm sure a nasty new piece of paper is added to your FBI file, so it's best to avoid contacting the authorities at all costs. This is the rationalization of Red Bagel's mind, of course, and it's precisely why I've been writing angry letters to doctors to have the man committed for years now. Not that being on the run from international assassins with the commune staff was all bad. Some of it was very bad. Some of it was agonizingly bad. So I might draw a pie chart, if that were my forte, and split it roughly into equal parts about 33% bad, 33% very bad, and %34 agonizingly bad. With a potential margin of error that it might be 99% agonizingly bad. You try sharing the same bathroom that Stigmata Spent and Ramon Nootles are using. One day of that and you'll be ready to walk in downtown Falluja with a sign reading "Islam blows!" It was every bit as bad as I say. Boris Utzov doesn't speak a lick of decipherable English, of course, but it's impossible to understand him anyway since the man is always eating. I now know why all his columns are stained with ketchup, mustard, and French fry grease. But at least his broken English is a lot cleaner than anything coming out of Ivana Folger-Balzac's mouth; the woman could have made Sam Kinison blush. I've never heard such abundant use of the F-word just to ask a hitchhiker for directions. All his money and Bagel wouldn't even spring for a hotel room. Well, he did get a hotel room, but he wouldn't let any of us stay in it since he was using it for the "commune dummies" he built out of old mannequins. "Just a trap to catch the bad guys," Bagel told us, rubbing his hands together in his usual scheme-talking manner. So basically we all end up sleeping on the bus seats, some of us two to a seat. I'm not sure which was more disturbing, Shabozz Wertham's audible racist sleep-mumbling or Boner Cunningham's somnambulist groping. What am I saying? Of course Boner was the worst. Without a doubt. I'm just not cut out for this group. Believe me, if I was employable elsewhere, I would leave them all behind. When the most intellectual conversation you can get is with an 8-year-old mail clerk, you know you're in the wrong place. Come to think of it, why did I even follow them? It's not like anyone put a gun to my head. Well, not a real gun. º Last Column: Highway to Hellº more columns
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|  October 16, 2000
Nabisco Loves MeIt's the question I think many of us ask over and over again... "Has my life mattered any?" "Has my being here changed anything or anyone?" "How has my life made the world a better place?"
It's a series of questions that needlessly rephrase that one first question I mentioned. But you can ask it a million times over and maybe never really know the answer, unless you've ever had a sitcom on ABC's "TGIF" line-up, in which case you can be assured you've made the world a darker and more painful place.
As for us regular joes, jacks, roks, rudys, steves, percys, and joaquins, we have to make a list. Maybe you do this, too--make a list of all the ways you've made the world a better place, all the things you have going for you, all the positive benefits your existence has brought. Maybe you make three lists. Always asking how things are better because you're here.
Well, maybe like you, I've made a list as described and come up with nada. I'll be damned if I can figure out how I've made the world better. Sure, maybe by the mere fact I'm here the world is different, but is it better? There's a few things I'm proud of, for sure. My two gay sons and my daughter, who may in fact be a yeti. My love wife of thirty years, Arvelyn; my former wife of thirty years, Wyfe. Although I have to admit my being here probably wouldn't affect her one way or the other. But there's other things, too, like the class in Feudalism I teach at U Ignorant, my...
º Last Column: Generation-X-O-Cide
º more columns
It's the question I think many of us ask over and over again... "Has my life mattered any?" "Has my being here changed anything or anyone?" "How has my life made the world a better place?"
It's a series of questions that needlessly rephrase that one first question I mentioned. But you can ask it a million times over and maybe never really know the answer, unless you've ever had a sitcom on ABC's "TGIF" line-up, in which case you can be assured you've made the world a darker and more painful place.
As for us regular joes, jacks, roks, rudys, steves, percys, and joaquins, we have to make a list. Maybe you do this, too--make a list of all the ways you've made the world a better place, all the things you have going for you, all the positive benefits your existence has brought. Maybe you make three lists. Always asking how things are better because you're here.
Well, maybe like you, I've made a list as described and come up with nada. I'll be damned if I can figure out how I've made the world better. Sure, maybe by the mere fact I'm here the world is different, but is it better? There's a few things I'm proud of, for sure. My two gay sons and my daughter, who may in fact be a yeti. My love wife of thirty years, Arvelyn; my former wife of thirty years, Wyfe. Although I have to admit my being here probably wouldn't affect her one way or the other. But there's other things, too, like the class in Feudalism I teach at U Ignorant, my astonishing collection of pogs and bottlecaps, and my 1983 biographic short film "Rok's Off." I have a few journalism awards but I understand they only count if they're actually presented to you, not picked up while unguarded at company buffets.
In the end, though, does all that really matter? The awards, the family, the class, the film critics call "an astonishing wake-up call to cat lovers everywhere"?
Maybe not, I thought. And I was a little sadder that day. So I dug into a box of my favorite snack cracker, the world-famous Cheez-Its.
And there on the box was my salvation.
A modest-size banner proclaiming Cheez-Its to be America's #1-selling brand cheese cracker. And, they plainly stated, it wouldn't be so if it wasn't for loyal customers like me.
Cheez-Its, old friend, you always remind me of the good in the world. So wise and cheese-tastious.
It was I who played a part in the efforts to make Cheez-Its the world's #1-selling brand cheese cracker. Without brand-loyal customers like yours truly, it's very likely Cheez-Its would never hold onto that coveted place in Americana. So I scoff to you, naysayers, sayers of nay, that Rok Finger has done nothing with his life.
"#1-selling brand cheese cracker"... what do you call that? Bite hard, boys! I got yer cheese cracker right here!
Thank you, Cheez-Its, for making me a part of your success. Many more happy years to come. º Last Column: Generation-X-O-Cideº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The Devil finds work for idle hands. It's all part-time clerical work, but the pay is kick-ass. The Devil is no longer hiring for assembly work.”
-Ted's Big Book of BibleFortune 500 CookieThis week you'll finally get that pot to piss in, but before you start unzipping, we should warn you it's second-hand. Turn on, tune in, and drop out—you've missed too many days in that computer programming class. Look for a bright-eyed Aries to take away all your troubles when she shoots you in the throat. Lucky scams this week: Pyramid, carnival ring toss, Florida voter roll purges, and it's okay, I had a vasectomy.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Get Un-Ugly for Summer | | 2. | Tits: One Man's Opinion | | 3. | Choosing the Most Out-of-Date Pictures for Your Personal Ad | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Pure Stallion Dog Food | | 5. | Me vs. the Turkey Vulture: How the Turkey Vulture Cheated | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 8/4/2003 Well how the hell are ya, America? Excuse my saucy tone, but I'm fuckin' smashed. That's right… wait, what were we talking about? Movies! Blow 'em out your ass, America! I'm fuckin' sick of movies, this week we're going to review vegetables. Cucumbers! Radishes! En… Endives! Yeah!
Alright, smartass, I'm out of vegetables. Here's your goddamn movies:
In Theaters
American Wedding
A formerly hardass franchise has gone all Friends on us, ladies and gentlemen. Hollywood's obese felines are betting you'll slap down your hard-earned pesos to watch these dirtballs get hitched, and I say screw 'em! Screw 'em and their imported water. If I wanted to see somebody stick their...
Well how the hell are ya, America? Excuse my saucy tone, but I'm fuckin' smashed. That's right… wait, what were we talking about? Movies! Blow 'em out your ass, America! I'm fuckin' sick of movies, this week we're going to review vegetables. Cucumbers! Radishes! En… Endives! Yeah!
Alright, smartass, I'm out of vegetables. Here's your goddamn movies:
In Theaters
American Wedding
A formerly hardass franchise has gone all Friends on us, ladies and gentlemen. Hollywood's obese felines are betting you'll slap down your hard-earned pesos to watch these dirtballs get hitched, and I say screw 'em! Screw 'em and their imported water. If I wanted to see somebody stick their dick in a wedding cake I would have gone to my cousin Dave's wedding last month. So let me be the first to add this movie to my list of things we're all boycotting: Pizza Hut, the boyscouts and this movie. Oh, and vegetables. Fuck vegetables. You heard it here first.
Fucking Friday
Jamie Lee Curtis and some anonymous tampon star in this triple-hashed remake of all those "Dad woke up with his teenage son's boner" movies from the 80's. Only now it's a mother and daughter sharing the misery, and it's not a onetime deal, but rather a once-a-week hassle that the family has come to know derisively as Fucking Friday. The expected faux-hilarity ensues, with daughter getting hot flashes and mom getting hot pants, blah blah blah. The bulk of the film consists of queasy sequences featuring mom being pawed by underage slobs with beer on their breath and daughter air-sickness bagging her way through routine, mechanical sex with dad, both of which I sincerely could have done without. Somebody actually found Mark Harmon buried in the wreck of the Lusitania and dug him up to co-star as the hot neighbor who may or may not have mind-switched with a two-year-old Latino boy. They must have figured Harmon had the necessary experience with catastrophes, but at least the first time around he probably got some decent seafood.
Gigli
With his latest picture, Ben Affleck proves he's whiter than any of us could have possibly imagined, despite his current marital status as a lemur clinging tenaciously to Jennifer Lopez's ass. Affleck plays Larry Gigli, a walking punchline whose constant references to "gettin' Gigli wit it" demonstrate that Affleck can't even appropriate faux-black culture from Will Smith, of all people. Thankfully, J-Lo sings a song on the soundtrack, so maximum camp value is achieved, allowing audiences to enjoy the film on an ironic level even if they like acting and music.
The Secret Lives of Dennis
Who out there among you didn't think it was too late for a Head of the Class spin-off movie? Okay, that's not many hands, but I'll assume that's because not many of you foresaw the possibility, or even recall the show from your cocaine-encrusted chest of 80's memories. For those of you that did think a spin-off was a good idea, wouldn't you have spun off a movie around rebel loner Eric or even geek chic Arvid? Okay, you guys with your hands still up are just fucking with me, go on home and quit busting my balls. As for the rest of you, were you really thinking of going to this movie? Good God man, don't you have some chores to do? Stay home and spellcheck your suicide note or something, for the love of all that is holy.
S.W.A.T.
The latest Playstation game to skip the Playstation and come straight to the theater is a loose (and I mean like the cousin that let you feel her up at the family reunion loose) sequel to the 1994 Stephen "Midget Golfer" Dorf flick S.F.W.. This is not to be confused with the Bridget "Anaconda" Fonda handjob S.W.F. (Super White Female) or the Three Stooges flick W.F.S. (Where the Fuck is Shep?). Since the original wasn't actually about anything, the producers had the leeway to build the sequel from the ground up, and to give the franchise a kick in the ass by making it a blaxploitation thrill ride. As with the original, the American public was deemed too square to be exposed to this film's title in its full glory (Some White-Ass Turkeys), but savvy filmgoers should know without being told that Samuel L. Jackson wouldn't get mixed up in another lame movie about the actual S.W.A.T. team, not after The Negotiator. Though he did still manage to walk into a door frame by not demanding that the screenwriter change his character's name from Hohmo, I can't help but think that's going to get more laughs than any of the actual jokes in the picture.
Alright, everybody out unless they want Bacardi on their pants! You got your movies, now leave Uncle Roland to drown his sorrows in a kiddie pool full of inexpensive rum. Check back in another two weeks, but if nobody answers when you knock then just dream up your own pithy comments for once. Lazy bastards.    |
