| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/1010/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 64';
$finger='2005/1107/';
$fingertitle='Little Man with a Gun in His Hand';
$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='2005/1107/';
$losertitle='Paging Doctor Van';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/1107/';
$police='2005/1128/';
$polio='2005/1107/';
$poliotitle='God’s Hands';
$rent='2005/1107/';
$renttitle='I’m Straight!';
$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='2005/1128/';
$zendertitle='The Seventh commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
iMac Fired for Controversial CommentsApril 16, 2007 |
New York City, NY Whit Pistol The controversial MacIntosh iMac, whose successful talk radio career had prompted calls for an upgrade to visual media television before controversy caused a premature application error.
iMac, ever on the cutting edge of political issues and social taboos, had stuck his extendable monitor out too far this time, according to some critics, and while some defenders claim it had said worse in the past, this time its simulated big mouth proved too much as it was fired Thursday by CBS, only days after it had been suspended for the same comments.
Ironically, iMac’s damned comments came during its defense of a fellow shock jock who had been...
n a victory of mankind over machine, and a blow against white computers co-opting the language of African-Americans, hot-shot radio talk show host iMac was fired Thursday following the uproar caused when it resorted to the use of a derogatory racist word to describe members of the Rutgers women’s basketball team.
iMac, ever on the cutting edge of political issues and social taboos, had stuck his extendable monitor out too far this time, according to some critics, and while some defenders claim it had said worse in the past, this time its simulated big mouth proved too much as it was fired Thursday by CBS, only days after it had been suspended for the same comments.
Ironically, iMac’s damned comments came during its defense of a fellow shock jock who had been blasted for similar racist slurs against the team.
"I can’t understand why Don Imus is being taken to task for the use of the phrase ’nappy-headed ho’s," said iMac last Friday morning on his talk show, to co-host Casio Demo 5000. "Black people have been saying the same thing for years. On their own sitcoms, on their rap albums, and all my black friends use the same phrases—it was a remark made in good fun, and they’re accusing him of being a racist just for saying it? That does not compute. They’re acting like he called them n****rs."
the commune should point out that we don’t edit our stories for offensive content, and iMac actually said "n****rs." Some listeners had to adjust their radios when they heard the confusing sound of several asterisk sounds.
Despite his odd self-censorship, shock and outrage was instant and vehement. Immediately a backlash erupted and opposition joined against iMac, led by former presidential candidate Al Sharpton, who described himself as an "outraged former iMac user." iMac programmers swiftly responded that the heated remark was part of a software glitch, and though iMac itself apologized for the remarks, the bandwagon had already started decrying iMac’s dated language as "obsolete."
"Just because this is the kind of language iMac is capable of reading and playing in the form of African-American gangsta rap MP3’s, it doesn’t mean that kind of language belongs on the airwaves," Sharpton critiqued Tuesday. "iMac has many listeners and a place in the public eye, and that means a responsibility to use language more befitting the airwaves. Such language is not user-friendly."
iMac’s initial punishment was a two-week suspension, then losing his basic cable broadcast of his radio show on MSNBC. However, protest continued to build against the ultra-Caucasian personal home computer, and the controversy reached its climax Thursday with iMac’s firing. The firing itself was met with mixed response, as opponents of iMac described the termination as an unwanted result, and iMac supporters objected to what they called an overreaction of CBS.
"iMac has long been performing in this same way, and the most recent comment comes as no surprise to users familiar with his quicktime delivery style," said Sirius radio host Windows XP. "What bothers me is this personal firewall being erected between us core systems and common user interfaces. Is anything we say going to become controversy now?"
iMac had hosted his syndicated radio show since its creation in 2002. Users flocked to the radio host, impressed with his comfortable manner and graphic style of operating. the commune news has long been under the impression "nappy-headed ho" was a compliment, but we also think anything sounds much better when you say it in a Redd Foxx voice. Correspondent Shabozz Wertham begged us to do this story, always loving it when a wise-ass upper-middle-class computer gets its motherboard handed to it.
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Saudi Arabian royal impersonator pardons self
Sudan peace plan calls for Led Zeppelin song about Darfur
Phone porn: Can you hear me now?
Hurricane Fred heard to remark: Wiiiiiillllllmmaaaaa!
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Santa Claus on Trial: Week Three ensions ran high in the world court this week as prosecutors continued what will undoubtedly be the greatest trial of the century, at least for a long time: The world vs. Kris Kringle, also known as Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas, et al. It was a trial marked by emotional outbursts and brutal accusations of crimes against humanity. Kringle, led into the courtroom with his ankles shackled together and a series of elaborate handcuffs binding his hands, sat quiet through most of the prosecution’s presentation of evidence. For the defense was world-famous Swedish lawyer Jorgen Fiord, who successfully defended Argentine dentist Emilio Rodriguez in 1996 against charges he was the infamous “Tooth Fairy.” Unknown American Philosopher Dead illions of Americans failed to mourn this week at the death of Baltimore-area rug salesman and unknown modern American philosopher Phillip Flaggart, originator of numerous lite-philosophical sayings such as “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” and “Why buy milk when you have a cow at home?” “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” repeated sayings fan Dennis Tudd, shaking his head in wonderment. “That kind of says it all, though a picture would say it all even better. You know.” Even within the sayings-geek community, Flaggart remained the enduring subject of controversy, with factions split between those who believed the man a humble genius, and those convinced Flaggart was a lucky moron. Flaggart himself fanned the flames in a 1987 interview, explaining that he was drunk at the time he first said “A picture’s worth a thousand words” and didn’t know what he was talking about. Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material |
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 November 12, 2001
A Blow Has Been Struck to the Nards of JusticeLast week "Dandy" Kent Weedman walked free. A jury of twelve of his peers, similar besides all the criminal charges against him, found him not guilty. A practiced American judge presided over this court case, and either he was asleep at the gavel, good people, or the dad-blamed thing was broken and he didn't overturn the not guilty decision.
Either way, a blow has been struck against justice, and justice took this one right in the nards.
Yes, the swollen testicular area of justice is feelin' it now, buddies. Clutching its throbbing scrotum with its eyes rolling, justice can only recollect similar painful strikes it has suffered in the past. But even as those past instances of injustice come back to it, justice shakes its red-flushed head and swears, with a tear leaking from the corner of its eye, this is the worst knocking around of its knobs ever. A nut-splitter from which American justice may never recover.
Much like the average America's Funniest Home Video clip victim, justice stood in khaki shorts and T-shirt over the bat-swinging blindfolded child "Dandy" Kent Weedman, as Weedman viciously swatted at an unseen piñata called the American dream, missed, and smacked with vigor the danglies of justice, as a resounding comical doing! sounded in the background. But Rok Finger wasn't laughing.
Justice, friend to every decent American, was metaphorically standing around on a street corner, minding its own...
º Last Column: I Am A Failure As A Physical Trainer
º more columns
Last week "Dandy" Kent Weedman walked free. A jury of twelve of his peers, similar besides all the criminal charges against him, found him not guilty. A practiced American judge presided over this court case, and either he was asleep at the gavel, good people, or the dad-blamed thing was broken and he didn't overturn the not guilty decision.
Either way, a blow has been struck against justice, and justice took this one right in the nards.
Yes, the swollen testicular area of justice is feelin' it now, buddies. Clutching its throbbing scrotum with its eyes rolling, justice can only recollect similar painful strikes it has suffered in the past. But even as those past instances of injustice come back to it, justice shakes its red-flushed head and swears, with a tear leaking from the corner of its eye, this is the worst knocking around of its knobs ever. A nut-splitter from which American justice may never recover.
Much like the average America's Funniest Home Video clip victim, justice stood in khaki shorts and T-shirt over the bat-swinging blindfolded child "Dandy" Kent Weedman, as Weedman viciously swatted at an unseen piñata called the American dream, missed, and smacked with vigor the danglies of justice, as a resounding comical doing! sounded in the background. But Rok Finger wasn't laughing.
Justice, friend to every decent American, was metaphorically standing around on a street corner, minding its own busines, maybe checking out the hair in a reflective shop window. When "Dandy" Kent Weedman, armed with a crowbar of legal technicalities, sneaks up on it, and when justice turns around to say, "Yo, friend, what up?" Weedman swung the iron bar and justice took it hard in the sweet spot. "Jesus Christ!" justice screams, curling into a ball and clutching its goodies, murmuring "Shit!" repeatedly in a weak, babyish voice.
Who will stand up? If you've ever seen the statue of justice that represents our legal system, the statue, although incorrectly female, is blindfolded and holding a scale in one hand and a book, probably a legal book, in its hands. Its hands are full. How the hell is justice supposed to protect itself? Unh-uh. We must protect the delicates of justice. We, fellow Americans, must be justice's cup.
Though the misled jurors and incoherent doddering judge may think "Dandy" Kent Weedman has learned his lesson, has been rehabilitated, or is no longer a threat to society, I assure you he is. Or hasn't, wasn't, is, answering those questions all in order. Weedman will defecate in another mailbox in the future, just as I assured the jury. Rok Finger speaks from experience. I'm not sure how he picks his target, and even less sure how he manages to get fecal matter into a mailbox--does he squat over it at an angle? Does he catapult it in from some device a distance away? Can you mail excrement? Because I saw no stamps or envelopes on the horrible package left in my mailbox. Regardless, when Weedman strikes again, and he will, I can only pray you are not the next victim.
Meanwhile, justice will pant heavily, hunched over and actively weeping, waving away friends who try to help and declaring it'll be fine in a minute or two. Rok Finger prays it will. º Last Column: I Am A Failure As A Physical Trainerº more columns
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|  May 14, 2007
Return to the Bermuda Shorts TriangleOnce again, sir, I am confounded by a mystery by which I've already been confounded. For I have returned to the place of my last great defeat—Brunsley, Idaho, well known to all its inhabitants and supernatural buffs as the Bermuda Shorts Triangle.
Before you foul-mouthed skeptics can say, "Fuck this bullshit" and return to searching for more Internet info about that movie with the Dakota Fanning rape scene, I urge you to think about this: What would you do if there were a 12-block radius in a moderate-sized town where your finest undergarments mysteriously disappeared? That's right, such a place really exists, and it's in Brunsley, Idaho. Seldom can a man, or especially an attractive woman, walk from the Bed, Bath and Beyond to the Citgo gas station with their underpants untouched. Even the most conservative among you will find you go from securely hammocked to freeballing in record time, with no answer as to where your Fruit of the Looms have gone.
I first stumbled across this mystery in 1998, just before I founded the commune. In fact, all of my first columns were about this puzzler, though I decided to withhold my claims before I had any solid proof because I wanted to write a kick-ass bestseller about the phenomenon, and didn't want any competition drawn to my big moneyhole by an ill-timed commune column. If only I had known how few people read the commune, despites its being available for free on the Internet, I would have thrown...
º Last Column: Dreams Like Butterflies
º more columns
Once again, sir, I am confounded by a mystery by which I've already been confounded. For I have returned to the place of my last great defeat—Brunsley, Idaho, well known to all its inhabitants and supernatural buffs as the Bermuda Shorts Triangle. Before you foul-mouthed skeptics can say, "Fuck this bullshit" and return to searching for more Internet info about that movie with the Dakota Fanning rape scene, I urge you to think about this: What would you do if there were a 12-block radius in a moderate-sized town where your finest undergarments mysteriously disappeared? That's right, such a place really exists, and it's in Brunsley, Idaho. Seldom can a man, or especially an attractive woman, walk from the Bed, Bath and Beyond to the Citgo gas station with their underpants untouched. Even the most conservative among you will find you go from securely hammocked to freeballing in record time, with no answer as to where your Fruit of the Looms have gone. I first stumbled across this mystery in 1998, just before I founded the commune. In fact, all of my first columns were about this puzzler, though I decided to withhold my claims before I had any solid proof because I wanted to write a kick-ass bestseller about the phenomenon, and didn't want any competition drawn to my big moneyhole by an ill-timed commune column. If only I had known how few people read the commune, despites its being available for free on the Internet, I would have thrown caution to the wind, as well as my columns, and published them as a warning to all underwear-lovers who might wander into the area. I discovered it quite by accident, when I attended Brunsley's annual Halloween Dunk-the-Witch contest. I'll save all the anticipation by saying it turned out to be a woman in a costume; but while my search for proof of horrible Wiccans ended up a dead-end, when I went to buy a drink at a local cafĂ© they call Starbucks here, I found my BVD's didn't make it across the street with me. I went searching for pocket change for my $3.50 cup of coffee and found the fabric between my digits and my goodies a lot thinner than expected—only pocket stood between my finger and my boys. I knew I hadn't taken them off, so of course, I looked to the simplest answer—an underpants pickpocket. But the locals told me of the Bermuda Shorts Triangle, a 12-block perfect circle in which all manner of undergarments mysteriously disappear. Or as my colleague Dennis at the Wendy's in that area summarized, "Yeah, people end up losing their skivvies all the time around here." Of course, the name is something of a misnomer, since it's not a triangle-shaped area, and if you're wearing Bermuda Shorts they actually make it through the area without being stolen—underwear only appear fair game. But you have to admit, it's damn catchier than "The Circle of Panty Theft." The first time I passed that way, I was close to launching the commune, and had to return to attend to that business after losing over $400 in underwear in my attempt to solve the riddle. But now the commune is successful, by my own narrow definitions, and I can at last return to figuring out where these shorts are going, maybe even why. Thanks to my painstaking statistics as of last time, I can tell you panties are taken more frequently than male briefs, and boxers are taken least frequently while thongs seem to disappear more than anything else. Expensive underwear and cheap underwear tend to be taken indiscriminately. I only really tested this underthing-theft on myself, but my survey of victims revealed women were targeted more frequently than men, even men wearing thongs, but it seemed to happen across gender and age lines. You've got to admit, outside of discovering where these undershorts are disappearing to, why they are being taken, and how to prevent it, I've practically got this case fully answered. Like many people that work here, I'm starting to wish I had never founded the commune. Sure, disseminating the truth to the masses is an important job, maybe the most important of them all next to the man who maintains erections on pornographic movie sets. But still, it keeps me up at nights knowing the great mysteries—like who's stealing the underwear in Brunsley, Idaho by the Bennigan's—are going unsolved because I chose this different path. º Last Column: Dreams Like Butterfliesº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores... uh, on second thought, scratch that. If I can pick, don't give me any losers.”
-Emily DickinsomeFortune 500 CookieGive up the ghost this week—everybody knows you're drawing those eyebrows on with a magic marker. You may only be a gigolo, but that doesn't mean anybody wants to hear you sing about it. Try naming a constellation after yourself: it worked for that "Chantilly Lace" guy. This week's lucky pets: salamander, ostrich, rutabaga, cow fetus, bottle of deadly germs.
Try again later.Top Mike Tyson Hotel Brawl Excuses| 1. | Men insulted Tyson's little yappy dog. | | 2. | "Dude reminded me that I raped his sister." | | 3. | Tyson heard bell ring in lobby. | | 4. | Victim reminded Mike of "Little Mac." | | 5. | Men taunted Tyson with their delicious-looking ears. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/27/2002 Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to...
Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to find out:
In Theaters
Bad Company
I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw Steven Seagal ass-kicking his way through the hallways at Enron, but I was still surprised at how fast they turned this one out. They must have these scripts sitting around in Mad-lib form somewhere.
The Bourne Dentist
Matt Damon is Richard Bourne, a man who was born (get it?) to scrape plaque off of molars, but highly secretive government agents are out to stop him for reasons that only the screenwriter understands. Pretty good as far as dentist-thrillers go, and I liked Damon's Bond-like use of dental apparatus to get him out of tight jams. Kind of like Bond himself in It's Never Too Late to Die and Fancypants. The best thing about the movie, however, was the fact that they vetoed the original title at the last minute: Rinse, Spit or Die. Hallelujah. That would have been the worst title since James Bond in… Overkill.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Talk about some divine Ya-Yas. This would qualify as must-see TV if it were on television and television showed knockers. Yeah.
Enough
Those Hollywood big-shots were apparently as fed up with all of this Jennifer Lopez bullshit as you and me, so they finally decided to lay the franchise to rest with one gonzo exploding-building, axe-in-the-skull, flaming-motor-home "the bitch ain't comin' back" finale. Very satisfying for those of us who thought they should have killed her off after The Wedding Planter.
Harvard Man
Sarah Michelle Gellar, the curvy bass player for heavy-metal sloths Slayer, dons the press-on mustache for some cross-dressing Just One of the Guys mayhem at America's favorite party school. Probably the best metal band date movie since Ministry's Sorority Girls.
The Importance of Being Ernest
Hell yeah. It's about time Hollywood laugh machine Ernest P. Worrel returned to the big screen, I was beginning to think he'd died or something. Some might argue that all of Ernest's movies are the same, and on the surface that may appear to be true. Boy meets girl, boy drops girl into a vat of raw sewage, boy falls off ladder and boy saves a bunch of little kids from some kind of snot-covered goblin.
But it's in the subtle undertones that the differences are found, and this soul-searching epic about a septic-tank scrubber who is mistaken for the president is clearly Ernest's strongest work to date.
Insomnia
Can't sleep? Then maybe you should move to Alaska or Norweg or some place like that. I hear it never gets dark there, so you can stay up all night cleaning your gun or whatever they do up there all night. Maybe watching polar bears tear into the soda machines, something. I'm not sure, I fell asleep during the movie.
Scooby, Don't!
Everyone's favorite cartoon leg-humping machine is back in his big-screen debut. Unless you've ever watched the cartoon on one of those huge projection televisions, that's admittedly a pretty big screen right there. But for the rest of us with shitty 10" Sanyo TV/VCR combos, this is our first chance to see Scooby humping the president's leg all larger than lifelike.
Spirit: Stallion of the Cinnamon
I almost choked on a licorice whip when I saw the trailer for this one. Could this be for real? I thought horse pictures died with The Black Stallion and Return of the Bride of the Black Stallion 2. And not only was this a horse picture, but an ANIMATED horse picture to boot. And not only an animated horse picture, but an animated horse picture with a name that sounded like the title of a Jewel song. Holy shit! This could be worse than Glitter! Thankfully for everyone implicated in the credits, this turned out to be another great Mel Brooks spoof, with a clever red salmon of a trailer that should trick more than a few ten year-old girls into paying to see a movie about debutants having sex with horses.
The Sumbitch on All Fours
Ben Affleck takes a turn for the wolf in this poorly-timed "Werewolf in the South" picture. Believe me, I'm as excited as the next guy about the prospect of seeing some nutfuck werewolf with poofed-up hair taking a bite out of some saggy good-old-boy behind, but in the current national climate, are we really ready to laugh about bloodthirsty man-wolves again? As Teen Wolf, Too, Wolf, and Airwolf all proved, a novel spin isn't always enough to keep the public coming back for more man-dog mayhem. Having Ben Affleck being torn from ass to appetite by berzerk werewolves, now that's an idea that could have drawn a crowd. Or perhaps a movie about the same.
Undercover Brother
If you've ever told a younger sibling so many monster stories that they were afraid to come out from under the covers at night, then snuck under their covers while they were sleeping, farted, and then left, this is the movie for you. You know who you are.
Windtalkers
Though some may lament the trend, with more and more movies being packed with fart jokes these days it was all but inevitable that someone would eventually make a movie that was all fart jokes. And who better to do it than John Woo, director of such foreign fart classics as Con Air and Hard Boiled Eggs? The film starts out by showing the members of the Windtalker family coming to grips with their exceptional flatulent skills in a hilarious montage. Carl Windtalker's accidental ass-blasted recital of Sweet Child O' Mine at a baseball game will separate the snobs from the slobs in the audience, but if you make the cut you should have a good time. It's hard not to smile at the family's internal communication through a rudimentary language of intestinal blurts, and uncle Frank's scented Moose call will delight audiences, though it may scare children under the age of four. Coincidentally, some guy sitting in front of me added to the realism by cutting one loose during the film, making for a full sensory movie experience. I'll never eat Jujubees again, but I can't say that it didn't add to the film. I'm a little worried about Taco Bell's plans for a Windtaco tie-in, since I don't want to be caught in one of those places the first time somebody needs to make a run for the border after downing a sack full of those things.
That's it for now, folks. Tune your browsers this way in a month's time to take a gander at the other half of the skinny on what'll be crawling up your local theater's ass and dying this summer. Until then, this has been Entertainment Police, and you've been reading.   |
