|
$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0912/';
$bageltitle='Strictly for the Inner Circle';
$book='2005/0912/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
$childstar='2005/0829/';
$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0912/';
$drecktitle='Hurricanes are Nature’s Douche';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0912/';
$hoopertitle='Seventh Heaven';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0912/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0912/';
$renttitle='Way Inside Jokes';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
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  Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows  Serial Killer's Neighbor: "He just wouldn't shut up about serial killing." Saudi Arabian royal impersonator pardons self
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Venezuela Adds Itself to ‘Axis of Evil’ he so-called ‘Axis of Evil,’ which now has more points than a pinwheel, took on another member when the forgettable South American country of Venezuela added itself to the roster of anti-U.S. countries this week. The announcement was made in the most awkward fashion, when President Victor Chavez made allegations that the United States has made plans to invade Venezuela soon. How soon? Chavez didn’t pinpoint a date, but said the invasion would happen imminently. According to Chavez, the U.S. has been planning to invade his country for some time, and he has proof, although he didn’t exactly present it to anybody. The most precise allegation made by Chavez cited “invasion training maneuvers” being made in his country by CIA operatives, who apparently weren’t in Venezuela for one of their thousands of monthly beauty pageants. Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneyland’s French Quarter efugees from the New Orleans disaster were thrilled this week by the news that Mayor Ray Nagin plans to re-open large parts of the city as early as today, allowing the many refugees spread across the American South like spilled milk to finally return home. The decision to return, however, is not so easy for the small number of lucky refugees who were relocated to the French Quarter section of the Disneyland theme park in Anaheim, California during the first days of flooding. “This is great, it’s like being back home, except Disneyer!” gushed socialite Anita Bomes, thrilled with her new New Orleans, a quaint miniature version of the city located near a fake lake that, to date, has never flooded. Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” R.C. Car Enthusiasts Angered by Latest Mars Mission Snub |
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 May 26, 2003
The Doctor is OutI don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.
My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.
I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.
Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked...
º Last Column: Hot Commercial Property º more columns
I don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.
My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.
I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.
Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked grade school more if they had let you wheel a gong into the talent shows like I wanted to. As it stands it was the worst two weeks of my life. Before the last two.
Whatever it's called, I've been up to my nipple rings in this thinking lately. You should try it some time, it's like a vacation for your eyes. Actually that's a bald assed lie. Thinking sucks, there's a reason it only comes up when your life has pinched a loaf. But I like to think I'm not the only one tugging on the peter of misfortune lately. Like they say, misery enjoys company picnics.
I suppose the whole doctor thing is a moot point anyway, since it looks like UPN's money tit is drying up and I won't have medical coverage after Thursday. Then it'll be back to consulting the copy of Captain Pickle's Big Book of Sick that I've had since I was five, which was probably a better idea all along. At least it has pictures and doesn't stick any silverware in your skin pantry, unlike certain doctors I could name or at least vaguely describe.
I'm not sure if the commune's advertisers have a problem with terms like "skin pantry," they seem to be a pretty mellow. All I know is the one douche commercial I did was like playing charades with a bunch of Nazis, everything was on their "no no" list. I couldn't even say "afro clam."
Until I get some offers for legit commercials (and no, I don't believe they really film commercials for having sex with a pony. Once bitten, twice shy on that one guys, but thanks for playing) I'm thinking of supplementing my income by opening an advice booth here at my desk at the commune, like the scam that Lucy girl was running in the old Peanuts comics. She seemed to do alright.
I don't really have her background in psychiatry, but I think I could do well with a Blunt Honesty booth. People would sit down, pay me first (if I learned one thing from Dr. Kevorkian's Biography, it's get the money upfront) and I'd tell them they had a face only an undertaker could love or something helpful like that. I'd probably have to charge more than a nickel because of inflation and all, I haven't really worked out the pricing structure yet. But I think it could work. One thing I know for sure, no way am I letting this thing degrade into a kissing booth like the last time I had this idea. A girl's got to look out for her reputation. º Last Column: Hot Commercial Propertyº more columns
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|  October 28, 2002
GET UP!"GET UP!"
screamed the miter
(a miniature mote)
who'd grown up in the bottom
of the back of a boat.
"RISE!"
cried the tiny little segmented man
whose hat was bright purple,
but his body was tan.
"HUZZAH!"
he repeated, at the top of his lungs
the very tip top,
so loud it rattled his bung.
"GOOD MORNING!"
he shouted.
"MOOD GORNING!"
he out-snouted
through the reverberant caverns of his nose
as he screamed and he scramped
and he ripped off his clothes.
"BRRRRRANT!"
on his bugle he bugled the note.
Then he honked out a ditty
that he'd recently wrote.
Into his mega he phoned
and he bellowed and moaned
as he screeched and he warbled
like a boy band on fire
and he pierced the sky with high notes
like a castrated choir.
He jumped and he leaped
as he stomped and he beeped,
making such a racket as to wake up the dead
who would wake with a ring and a buzz in their heads.
But even when threw a drum kit down the stairs
and gave untuned tubas to the back-country bears
and told the hyenas a side-splitting joke
and he banged on his gong till his gong-banger broke,
on his chalk board he screeched a quarry's worth of chalk
and he gave the loud-talkers a license to talk
and he shoved a canoe...
º Last Column: Mouse in My House º more columns
"GET UP!"
screamed the miter
(a miniature mote)
who'd grown up in the bottom
of the back of a boat.
"RISE!"
cried the tiny little segmented man
whose hat was bright purple,
but his body was tan.
"HUZZAH!"
he repeated, at the top of his lungs
the very tip top,
so loud it rattled his bung.
"GOOD MORNING!"
he shouted.
"MOOD GORNING!"
he out-snouted
through the reverberant caverns of his nose
as he screamed and he scramped
and he ripped off his clothes.
"BRRRRRANT!"
on his bugle he bugled the note.
Then he honked out a ditty
that he'd recently wrote.
Into his mega he phoned
and he bellowed and moaned
as he screeched and he warbled
like a boy band on fire
and he pierced the sky with high notes
like a castrated choir.
He jumped and he leaped
as he stomped and he beeped,
making such a racket as to wake up the dead
who would wake with a ring and a buzz in their heads.
But even when threw a drum kit down the stairs
and gave untuned tubas to the back-country bears
and told the hyenas a side-splitting joke
and he banged on his gong till his gong-banger broke,
on his chalk board he screeched a quarry's worth of chalk
and he gave the loud-talkers a license to talk
and he shoved a canoe through a tight leather shoe
and he told teenage girls they were bathing in poo
and he amplified a donkey to the power of six
and he beat the complainer at a game of pick-up sticks,
he alarmed an alarm
and he pantsed a school marm
and he dropped twelve ball bearings on an aluminum barn
and he crept into the pope's bedroom and he screamed "DARN!"
still
Roofer McGoofer McGoo
slept
and he slept.
Goddamn dog. º Last Column: Mouse in My Houseº more columns
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Milestones2002: Office prick and former Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley successfully turns 30, leading us on an endless week-long binge of bitching, moaning, and strange acts of vandalism we hope not to repeat this year.Now HiringBig Fat Patsy. 'Cause we're not taking the rap for this, see. We must look like a real all-day sucker to you, yeah, a sucker, with a big fat wrapper. Boy, should we have seen it coming! Played like a two-bit piano from day one. Backstabbing dames need not apply.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Vietnam: The New San Francisco? | | 2. | 10 New Ways to Weight a Body Down | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Ethnic Pudding | | 4. | Love: The Source of All Bad Poetry | | 5. | Pants You Could and Will Die In | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Violet Tiara 8/23/2004 WhistlepigLoud and sweet,
the howling of the whistlepig
erects my nipples like
sails taut in the wind.
Sailfish taught me to win
by cheating at cards,
like a cardinal at charms
or an oriole with arms.
Whistlepig, whistlepig,
let me in,
caught by the hair
on your skinny tin fin.
It's just my luck to get fucked
on a wagon by Chuck
who'd suck a duck for a buck!
Old Spice tastes nice on rice,
but for half the price a calf with lice
will cough in your soup—delicious!
Pernicious rumors spread by baby boomers
ruined my rep at the shipyards.
But playing cards with retards
will even get you barred from Menards.
Vietnam was the...
Loud and sweet,
the howling of the whistlepig
erects my nipples like
sails taut in the wind.
Sailfish taught me to win
by cheating at cards,
like a cardinal at charms
or an oriole with arms.
Whistlepig, whistlepig,
let me in,
caught by the hair
on your skinny tin fin.
It's just my luck to get fucked
on a wagon by Chuck
who'd suck a duck for a buck!
Old Spice tastes nice on rice,
but for half the price a calf with lice
will cough in your soup—delicious!
Pernicious rumors spread by baby boomers
ruined my rep at the shipyards.
But playing cards with retards
will even get you barred from Menards.
Vietnam was the bomb,
that's word being spread by Deadheads.
And redheads like Ed's bed
according to the graffiti I've read.
Whistlepigs ain't that big,
but they feel like suede, sorta.
And they'll suck the fat from your aorta
like a lipo machine on Tommy Lasorda.
I'd bet an erector set
you'd wet the vet if you slept over.
I hear he's got a deer clinic in Andover
and he's got plastic sheets so come on over!
Cleats made from beets would fit my feet,
according to the guy at the shoe store.
But don't ask what he wears that noose for,
Unless you want to hear a moose roar.
Whistlepigs! Whistlepigs stole my dozen donuts!
I didn't tell them they could go nuts,
I just said that they could share one.
I guess they can't count or don't care none.
I'm most pissed that one with the horizontal wrinkles
made off with the pink mint sprinkles.
This is a topping with which I'm quite taken,
but today I'll have to settle for Whistlebacon!   |