|  | 
May 9, 2005 |
Chicago, Illinois VARIOUS NUMBSKULLS uthorities were just plain pissed off with the news that America's "Runaway Asshole" had struck twice more this week, further eroding the nation's confidence in the common decency of man, while thrilling asshole fans and vindicating the merely inconsiderate nationwide.
In the first such incident, officials claim the asshole struck in Illinois, defacing the hallowed image of the Virgin Mary formed by salt run-off and pigeon shit on the underpass of an interstate expressway near Chicago. The emergency turnoff area and impromptu holy shrine had become an instant tourist attraction almost overnight, drawing the devout and bored from miles around ever since a homeless man was spotted trying to piss a complete manger scene onto the underpass last week. The holiness would prove short...
uthorities were just plain pissed off with the news that America's "Runaway Asshole" had struck twice more this week, further eroding the nation's confidence in the common decency of man, while thrilling asshole fans and vindicating the merely inconsiderate nationwide.
In the first such incident, officials claim the asshole struck in Illinois, defacing the hallowed image of the Virgin Mary formed by salt run-off and pigeon shit on the underpass of an interstate expressway near Chicago. The emergency turnoff area and impromptu holy shrine had become an instant tourist attraction almost overnight, drawing the devout and bored from miles around ever since a homeless man was spotted trying to piss a complete manger scene onto the underpass last week. The holiness would prove short-lived, however, when the "Runaway Asshole" allegedly spray painted the word "bullshit" over the apparition and drew a Fu Manchu mustache on the Virgin Mary with a Sharpie marker.
Authorities believe this to be the work of the same asshole that destroyed the Virgin Mary image appearing in the window of a Clearwater, Florida office building in 1996. Before the window was destroyed, thousands of hoopleheads had gathered to gawk at the colorful apparition, which scientists claimed to be caused by extreme maintenance neglect, and a nearby Target store had begun to sell special bottles of Windex adorned with apparitions of the holy virgin. Authorities later retrieved the slingshot round that had destroyed the window, but apparently some asshole had coated the ball bearing with grease, making fingerprint identification impossible.
Mere days after the Chicago incident, the asshole appeared again in Wilmington, North Carolina, ordering a pint of frozen custard from Kohl's Frozen Custard, which is in no way affiliated with the Kohl's chain of department stores known for their lousy custard. Only minutes later, custard worker Brandon Fizer, distracted by some asshole in line yelling for him to "hurry it up with the custard, dickless," somehow managed to chop the end of his index finger off in the custard machine. Authorities remain uncertain about how this is even possible, considering that the machine consists of little more than a lever and a custard nozzle, but few deny that Fizer somehow miraculously found a way.
According to witnesses, upon finding Fizer's digit in his mouthful of custard, the asshole spit the fingertip into a nearby baby's eye, then snatched it up off the floor and ran straight to his lawyer's office. Numerous attempts to recover the tip so it could be surgically reattached to the rest of Fizer proved unsuccessful, as the asshole claimed to need it for evidence of emotional suffering in the upcoming civil suit.
Extremely amateur detectives have questioned whether there could be a connection between America's "Runaway Asshole" and Georgia's recently-famous "Runaway Bride," either by blood or through a marriage in the family. Some have even gone so far as to infer that the asshole may have talked the bride into buying her infamous bus ticket, or maybe he was even the one driving the bus, you never know. Others are intrigued by the possibility that the two could get together to record a cover of Soul Asylum's 1992 hit "Runaway Train" for charity.
Though the identity of the "Runaway Asshole" remains unknown, authorities claim to have several compelling asshole leads, and are currently seeking out both Donald Trump and the commune's own Omar Bricks for questioning. the commune news learned long ago that you can't run away from your problems, unless you're American track star Michael Johnson. That dude is wicked fast. Ivana Folger-Balzac is the commune's go-to reporter whenever a story requires a biting wit, biting cynicism, or just plain biting.
 | Kidnapped journalist mysteriously rescued by Superman
John Hauptman edges out Bernard Gaines for 100,000 richest American slot
 OH MY GOD SNOW Spam King beheaded in royal coup by Duke of Dick Pills
|
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 |
|  |
 | 
 September 16, 2011
A Day That Will Live in FamyEmil's Note: You won't believe your luck and mine, Rok readers! Did you know that, after the initial Sept. 11 attacks on American soil, nerves-of-steel columnist Rok Finger wrote his thoughts about the event for commune publication? For some reason known only to the Red almighty, it never ran. Maybe too controversial for its "barely coherent handwriting" and with uncommon levels of coffee staining, but it's been a decade, the standards have changed, even drastically lowered, and I'm willing to run what Señor Bagel did not. So here to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the commune's Oct. 1st return to regular publishing, enjoy this nose nugget from a time gone by…
Good people, there are no words to describe what I am feeling today. Though "fuckdammit" and "cuntballs" are pretty close.
Here it is, Wednesday morning, and I have endured, with the rest of America, watching those glorious towers fall yesterday in New York City. Some bad shit also happened in the nation's capital, but I was getting a sandwich when they covered that. To hit the World Trade Center, all of those casualties, all that property damage done, it's the greatest tragedy of our lifetimes, or it would be, if all those people who were around during Pearl Harbor would hurry up and die off. Myself excluded, of course.
We must not rush to conclusions on this. No matter the anger that we all feel, it's more important than ever to remember the tenets of...
º Last Column: Thank God For Osama Ben Laden º more columns
Emil's Note: You won't believe your luck and mine, Rok readers! Did you know that, after the initial Sept. 11 attacks on American soil, nerves-of-steel columnist Rok Finger wrote his thoughts about the event for commune publication? For some reason known only to the Red almighty, it never ran. Maybe too controversial for its "barely coherent handwriting" and with uncommon levels of coffee staining, but it's been a decade, the standards have changed, even drastically lowered, and I'm willing to run what Señor Bagel did not. So here to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the commune's Oct. 1st return to regular publishing, enjoy this nose nugget from a time gone by…
Good people, there are no words to describe what I am feeling today. Though "fuckdammit" and "cuntballs" are pretty close.
Here it is, Wednesday morning, and I have endured, with the rest of America, watching those glorious towers fall yesterday in New York City. Some bad shit also happened in the nation's capital, but I was getting a sandwich when they covered that. To hit the World Trade Center, all of those casualties, all that property damage done, it's the greatest tragedy of our lifetimes, or it would be, if all those people who were around during Pearl Harbor would hurry up and die off. Myself excluded, of course.
We must not rush to conclusions on this. No matter the anger that we all feel, it's more important than ever to remember the tenets of our judicial system. I trust as soon as the president comes out of hiding he will remind us that it's not enough to assume who did it, to round up every suspect and throw them away in prison for the rest of their lives without giving themselves a chance to prove their innocence at trials. No matter how it might seem, we need to investigate this great tragedy, find those responsible, wherever they are. Even if we already know who did it.
That's right: Mall developers. It was bound to happen, all of that beautiful expensive real estate taken up by those shining silver towers jutting up from the ground like twin robot erections, not a Sbarro or Spencer's Gifts among them. The best designers in the world couldn't make escalators that go up that high, and we knew it the whole time, we knew we were asking for foreign mall developers to come and give us the business. I keep hearing that the casualties might have been worse in the afternoon, after all the teenagers had gotten out of school, but I still wish it had been earlier in the morning, when only the old people were walking the towers.
Nor should we go out into the streets of our own country, like a mob, and take out our frustrations on people just because they're part of the same group. I've known many mall developers in this country, and no matter how scummy they are, some of them are good people. Why, here in Flatbush we have one of the world's most beautiful malls, not built as a beacon of commerce but as a town center, complete with a garden and library. True, the garden is mostly made up of Chinese food and goes by the name Mandarin Garden, and the library charges preposterous prices for every book you check out, but this is the town center of the 21st century. Mall developers have brought us that, good mall developers, not the monsters who knocked down our big buildings.
Some people have been quick to ask that the military involve themselves in this conflict, but I ask, what could the military do? The damage has been done here. The injuries we've suffered as a nation doesn't give us the right to go stomping around the rest of the world, throwing out weight around, exacting vengeance like a pissed-off Mel Gibson—not unless we get Mel Gibson himself to do it. Man, that guy's star will never fade. No, I say the military has no place in this. We must ask our brother nations and sister nation (I'm winking slyly at you, France) to join us in ending mall developer terrorism, forming a coalition of peace to arrest mall developer terrorists and dismantle their organizations. It's the wisest and most constitutional course of action, but I don't have to tell our president about doing the right moral thing. I look to you, Mr. President!
One final thought: Let this horrible scar in our modern history be a reminder, not a wasted opportunity. This closeness we all feel today should not be lost or forgotten. When I first got news of the tragedy, I saw a hot dog vendor hugging a Rocky Horror Picture Show fan—that's right, mortal enemies locked in an embrace, right out in the open. Just this morning I looked out my window and saw a child savaging my lawn with a flaming roll of toilet paper and I didn't have the heart to interrupt his fun. Things are getting back to normal, however slowly, but we will never be the same, and if we are all quick to remember we're more alike than unalike, we can be better from this.
As for the responsible party (cough, cough, mall developers, cough), don't worry. They will be brought to justice, even if it takes us another ten years. But not one single year longer than that, do you hear me? Not one. º Last Column: Thank God For Osama Ben Ladenº more columns
| 
|  April 18, 2005
Check Your BreastsPansies everywhere agree: Feminism is important. At least that's what I hear every time my TV gets stuck on the women's channel, OBG or whatever it is. The Bricks TV does that sometimes, flips randomly through channels, which I guess is to be expected since the nerve center of the Bricks Manor entertainment center is a 1957 Tesla from Eastern Europe, which "came with the house" since it's too heavy to move out the front door. It's not even supposed to get cable, but I fixed that quick with a hand-hatchet and some wire I dug up out of the yard. Now the TV works fine, except Foghat barks at the thing like crazy whenever it's raining, and no plants will grow in that room.
But regardless, Omar Bricks has always had a great respect for women's issues. Seriously. It might surprise some to be informed that Omar Bricks is considered by many to be one of the great feminist thinkers of the 21st century. By whom? There's got to be somebody out there. Prove me wrong.
Now that that death-threat dodge is out of the way, we can get to the meat and beans of the column. I was sitting out on the roof the other day, engaging in the hallowed spring ritual of throwing Easter eggs at Mitch's dogs when I had my stroke of genius: What was stopping me from setting up my own mobile mammography business?
I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I didn't want to question that too deeply in case it turned out to be voodoo or something I saw on M.A.S.H....
º Last Column: Cordially Requesting Your Restraint º more columns
Pansies everywhere agree: Feminism is important. At least that's what I hear every time my TV gets stuck on the women's channel, OBG or whatever it is. The Bricks TV does that sometimes, flips randomly through channels, which I guess is to be expected since the nerve center of the Bricks Manor entertainment center is a 1957 Tesla from Eastern Europe, which "came with the house" since it's too heavy to move out the front door. It's not even supposed to get cable, but I fixed that quick with a hand-hatchet and some wire I dug up out of the yard. Now the TV works fine, except Foghat barks at the thing like crazy whenever it's raining, and no plants will grow in that room.
But regardless, Omar Bricks has always had a great respect for women's issues. Seriously. It might surprise some to be informed that Omar Bricks is considered by many to be one of the great feminist thinkers of the 21st century. By whom? There's got to be somebody out there. Prove me wrong.
Now that that death-threat dodge is out of the way, we can get to the meat and beans of the column. I was sitting out on the roof the other day, engaging in the hallowed spring ritual of throwing Easter eggs at Mitch's dogs when I had my stroke of genius: What was stopping me from setting up my own mobile mammography business?
I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I didn't want to question that too deeply in case it turned out to be voodoo or something I saw on M.A.S.H. last week. Instead I launched into action, borrowing my neighbor Hamms' Winnebago and hitting the road with a coat-hanger still sticking out of the door lock. Thinking smart from the start, I figured that a traveling cross-country mobile mammography business stood a better chance for success than one that was just parked in the parking lot of a Circle K.
That's a lesson I learned when I was driving a bookmobile before coming to work at the commune. Before you get your chinos in a bunch, let me clarify that I wasn't working for the library or whatever pack of nerds it is that unleashes the bookmobile from deep in the bowels of the Book Cave early every morning. No, I was just driving one, because they left it running and I needed a ride to the commune. But that day I learned just how valuable location can be. That bookmobile was parked outside the commune offices for three days and only two people took out books: Rok Finger checked out The Small Man's Guide to Talking Big and Bagel snaked Charlotte's Web because he thought it was about a Byzantine international conspiracy. That thing needed to be parked in front of a book store or something, not right outside this idiot-hole. Location, location, location.
For the first few states things were taking off pretty slow, I admit, and it occurred to me that the "NO FATTIES" bumpersticker I had put on the door was probably driving away business. But in this business, that's business Omar Bricks can afford to lose.
Business continued to puff a dong until I got to Pennsylvania, when I ran into a dude who wanted a boob job, which meant I had to alter the "BOOB JOBS: $5" sign I had mounted on the Winnebago's windshield. This dude was an especially impressive knob since I had written the sign backwards, so I could read it from inside the Winni, but I guess this guy was really determined to get his boobs jobbed.
So I had to make a new sign that said "WOMEN'S BOOBS JOBBED" instead. I wasn't sure about the technical terminology for mammography, or even exactly what it entailed beyond a feel-up, but either way "mammography" was way too long a word to fit on my sign without buying a smaller sharpie. And my business expenses were already way into the red from buying two slurpies and the posterboard back in Jersey. But there was no way around those basic expenses, otherwise I never would have been able to make that life-saving "TEST YOUR GAS FOR PHLOBYNOL" sign with the arrow pointing to the Winni's gas tank. Do you have any idea how expensive gas is nowadays? And do you have any idea how gullible people can be when you make up a word like Phlobynol?
Anyway, according to commune head chunk Gay Bagel I can't take seventeen pages to tell my column stories any more, no matter how badly this compromises the truth or the juicy details. Suffice it to say that Winnebagos can't float, even if they do look exactly like house boats, and a good mobile mammographer has to be able to get a bra off faster than it takes a mobile home to sink to the bottom of the Potomac. On the bright side, I'm already way ahead of last year's pace for losing other people's vehicles in large bodies of water, with over seven full months still to go. That's the other key to successful mobile mammography: Staying positive. Bricks out. º Last Column: Cordially Requesting Your Restraintº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“Don't run if you can walk. Don't walk if you can stand. Don't stand if you can sit. Don't sit if you can lie down. Don't like down if you can sleep. Don't sleep if you can be put into a medically induced coma. Don't be put into a medically induced coma if you can kick back in an iron lung and have machines shit for you. Don't do any of that if golf is on TV.”
-Lazy Larry LisbaineFortune 500 CookieYou're gonna die this week. Sorry we couldn't put a more clever spin on that. In the meantime, try pouring sugar on your cereal instead of milk. Fuck it, what's anybody gonna do about it now? If it's any consolation, almost everyone in the world doesn't know you're alive anyway. This week's lucky coffin models: Dirt Rocket III, Econo-Sarcophagus Jr, The Spruce Moose, Office Max Moving Box Model 223117, The Bobsled to Hell, Spring-Loaded Jokester's Delight, Seventh Generation Biodegradable Grandma Sack, foot locker in your ex-boyfriend's closet.
Try again later.Top Outstanding commune Petty Cash Debts| 1. | Raoul Dunkin $974.25 in mental anguish | | 2. | Smilin' Jack Costello $8, plus interest | | 3. | Ned Nedmiller 1/8th of a cent | | 4. | Mazie the Chicken 1 half cup of scratch | | 5. | You Know Who You Are 1 human gall bladder | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/20/2003 Alright, who ordered the crap? Oh, it's you! America! Well, here you go then:
In Theaters
Darkness Falls
I have to admit I was pretty scared going into this one until I realized that the bad guy wasn't the tooth fairy from that Hannibal Lector book. Once I realized that it was the fuckin' tooth fairy, I broke out the airhorn. The little sprite that leaves you quarters and sells your teeth for serial killers to make into necklaces or whatever she does with them is right up there with Al Gore on my personal list of terrifying movie villains, but I'm happy to say the movie was redeemed by random blurts of high-intensity noise. For a while the audience thought the tooth fairy was...
Alright, who ordered the crap? Oh, it's you! America! Well, here you go then:
In Theaters
Darkness Falls
I have to admit I was pretty scared going into this one until I realized that the bad guy wasn't the tooth fairy from that Hannibal Lector book. Once I realized that it was the fuckin' tooth fairy, I broke out the airhorn. The little sprite that leaves you quarters and sells your teeth for serial killers to make into necklaces or whatever she does with them is right up there with Al Gore on my personal list of terrifying movie villains, but I'm happy to say the movie was redeemed by random blurts of high-intensity noise. For a while the audience thought the tooth fairy was driving a semi truck or something, which was pretty funny, but then I got a little airhorn-happy and had to spend the last half of the movie listening from outside.
A Guy Thing
Pretty hard to keep the storylines straight in this film, which was slightly less confusing than watching Twin Peaks on acid at Disneyland. Jason Lee porks a monkey who used to belong to an organ grinder who's the brother of his fiancée's uncle's dentist, and it's a race against time to keep her from finding out. And at the same time there's a vet who's racing against time to let Jason Lee know that the monkey he porked has the splits, or some kind of banana-eating monkey disease they made up for the movie, whatever they called it. So he's got to stop Lee before he porks again and begins the downfall of mankind. But Jason Lee once teabagged the vet while he was sleeping, and the photos are in the mail so it's a further race against time for Lee to avoid the vet and track down the highly-paranoid mailman before he delivers the package that contains the pictures of Jason Lee teabagging the vet who knows about the monkey who belonged to the brother of his fiancée's uncle's dentist. Bottom line: you have to see it twice to understand how much it sucks.
The Hours
I always wondered how you spelled the Canadian pronunciation of whores, and now I know. Nicole Kidman and a couple of other high-profile women who aren't hot enough to remember star in this disappointing feature that has very little to do with whoring and a lot to do with being boring. Calling it The Bores would have been more fitting, but I guess people would have stayed away because nobody wants to watch another goddamned movie about pigs.
Kangaroo Jack
Jack Nicholson must have a powerful yen for scaring the shit out of little kids, because he's at it again for the second time already this year. First he was terrifyingly middle-aged in About Shit, now he's a goddamned kangaroo. I wasn't sure what to make of a movie that's mainly Jack hopping around and waving his ballsack at people in a threatening manner, but after a while I realized it was all a meditation on America's role in the Middle East and from there on out I enjoyed the film.
National Security
Hilarious September 11th spoof starring Steve Zahn as George W. Bush and Martin Lawrence as Colin Powell. These guys are just in the wrong place at the wrong time all the time and their bumbling attempts to stop an international terror network will leave your pants moist with laughter. The truth hurts, but every once in a while it hurts because you're laughing too hard and your catheter pulled out or whatever. This is all the stuff CNN wouldn't let you see, and I bet that right about now they're kicking themselves that they didn't go with a comedy news format the instant W. got elected. They should show this in grade school and during voter registration.
That's that for this week, check back in two more when we'll measure the diameter of the sun in lousy romantic comedies from 2002. Until then!   |