Bagel Posthumously Awarded "Yitmotty"

hiter-than-white white man Red Bagel, founder and sometime-Editor of the commune was awarded his own publication's "You the Man of the Year" Award for the sixth year in a row, to no one's surprise. Bagel has been missing and presumed paranoid since the November re-election of evil incarnate George W. Bush, and Bagel's brother Gay presented the award posthumously to his own brother at a ceremony at the commune offices in Flatbush, New Jersey, even as Bagel's Caucasian manservant Rascal insisted his "master" was alive and willing to accept the award behind closed doors.

Gay Bagel, a miserable shell of a man, praised his brother with backhanded compliments on Red's lifelong career of spending a lot of time on something never once profitable.

"What can we say about Red that has not already been said in the poetry of stoned hippies everywhere," said Gay Bagel, reading from a fill-in-the-blanks form eulogy he acquired from the Internet. "My brother waged a war against the mentally stable everywhere in his attempts to spread the word of liars and morons. Without him around, the world is a little less prone to idiocy. But I've come here to bury Red, not to praise him, if I could but find the body. If I found him alive, then I would have come to bathe him and get him a clean suit, or at least have him cut his fingernails and stop dragging the name Bagel down into the sewers he smells like. I suppose all I really want to say here is: Red, if you are alive, anywhere, there are a lot of bills that haven't been paid yet and nobody can figure out how to get into the commune lockbox. All you here are witnesses—the man is this much closer to being declared dead, and soon I will be the boss of all of you."

And for the first time, the entire commune staff burst into tears at the thought of Red's passing.

Despite the sombering moment at the event, things cheered up when Rascal, representing Red Bagel himself, took the stage and promised us all our fearless editor was in the best of health, and thankful for his sixth consecutive win, making him the only person ever to win the YTMOTY, or "Yitmotty."

"Crikey, don't it beat all?" rattled the Australian manservant, who wore his best T-shirt to the ceremony. "Red misses y'all, I can assure ya, and soon as he feels it's 'all clear' to return to the surface, he's gonna join us for a three-week binge party of nothin' but lager, mates! Now… what say we drink up, for Red's sake?" Rascal, already drinking heavily before the announcement, devolved into a parade of Australian caterwauling understandable to no one, Australian or otherwise.

The event continued on into early evening hours, until most of us had drunken ourselves into a haze and all efforts to keep Omar Bricks away from the stereo finally failed. As 1980s nostalgia bombarded us through twin speakers, a few reporters spoke well of Red Bagel and his missing ass.

"There will never be another like Red Bagel—a man entirely devoted to his vision of a better America," said former Acting Editor Ramrod Hurley, now acting like a drunk. "An America of tomorrow, without fear and prejudice, without the suffering of the common man, and with a government forthright and honest with its own people. And now that he's gone, I call dibs on the boss job."

Hurley was bound, gagged, and wrapped in garish paper. The stamp on his head ordered us not to open until X-Mas, and I had to heartily agree.

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the commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.

Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananas—there's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.

I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.

Have you ever found that Russian novelists, classic Russian novelists especially, are obsessed with depictions of death? Americans, on the other hand, maybe all western novelists, seem more concerned with depictions of life; however, it may be argued that it is the Russian novelist who has the courage to face reality, while what we write about indicates our need to escape that grim reality. This might be changed considerably if more Russian novelists wrote in English. Russian is a hard language to write in. Trying to figure it out makes you suicidal. That's my guess.

Has there ever been a cereal called Nutsack Crunch? I'm thinking maybe a cluster-type cereal, sold in a canvas bag. If there hasn't, good. Cereal manufacturers be warned: What were you thinking? The mere sound of it puts most people off their appetites. Nutsack Crunch… Jesus.

Now a cereal named Jesus, on the other hand, that's bankable. No better way to start your day. In my opinion.

Oasis is now banned from performing in this country. They know why.

It should have been obvious General Custer would meet his end at Little Big Horn. Little Horn? Big Horn? The place was clearly named to confuse the white man. That's why I never stage any battles there.

What would you do for a Klondike Bar? Wait, don't agree to anything too fast. I found one today in the frozen foods section of my local grocery store. All the humiliation I've endured, they were just sitting there for sale the whole time. The whole time. Not even that expensive.

Remember when they used to say "Mike Connors is Mannix"? I kept waiting for that to come up in the show, but no matter how frequently they reminded us of the fact, I never saw it amount to anything. I expected a big "I am Spartacus" moment that never happened. What a waste.

I had a job selling car stereos once, and the manager used to tell us to go "balls out" during any big sales push. Let me save you some trouble and warn you right now, it doesn't sell any more car stereos. Boxer shorts, perhaps, but not car stereos. Then the manager had the nerve to get mad at me.

Do you know the Muffin Man? The Muffin Man? The Muffin Man. Don't trust that son of a bitch. The first one was free, then he jacked up the price. Now I've got a muffin problem.

I'm telling everyone now: If I'm ever hooked up to a machine to keep me alive, promise me you'll tell me in detail exactly how that machine works. It sounds unbelievable. A machine?!? That keeps people alive?!? Wow. Just… wow. So tell me all about it, assuming I'm not a catatonic pile of flesh and bones.

That's all I can stands, I can't stands no more.

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Dear commune:

I know her! I know that lady! I do! I know her! That lady, I know her!

That lady, Ella Dipthong, the one who did the This Space for Rent column that one week. I know her. I know that lady. Where do I know her from?

She's too old to have gone to school with. Maybe she's a teacher. Could she come in the Winn-Dixie all the time? Nah, I can't put her in the Winn-Dixie in my mind. But I know her. Shit, where do I know her from? I can't put my fucking finger on it.

Dipthong, Dipthong… Dip-THONG. Shit, I don't know a Dipthong. I know her, though. Where…? Did I spend the night in jail with a Dipthong or something? Not her, but her son maybe? Where did I meet a Dipthong? Shit, I can't think. She doesn't work at the head shop, that lady's last name is Bulaine. Where the fuck did I meet a Dipthong?

Arrrrrgh! Christ, it's too cruel. I know her fucking face, I even heard her name. I just can't place it. Where in the fuck would I meet Ella Dipthong? She ain't no parole officer, I know that, and I've never had her bag my stuff at the Kroger's.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—fuck! I give up, man. No fucking clue. Tell me. Where do I know her from?

Fitz Melbourne
Poulot, MO


Dear Fitz:

Ooooh, man, you were so close. Would a hint help? How about 3 hints? Christmas cards. 1993 Kourtland Family Reunion. Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries.

That's right, Ella Dipthong is in fact the stepmother of Kelly Kourtland, your girlfriend during your junior and senior years of high school. Though she married Kelly's father, George Kourtland, she retains her maiden name, being a cynical control-freak lacking any romanticism. Though you broke up with Kourtland over the summer after your senior year, Ella kept sending you Christmas cards for three years following, and it always hurt just a little bit, didn't it? She once humiliated you at the dinner table when you said your favorite cereal was Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries—is it coming back to you now?

Yes, Fitz, Ella Dipthong in fact was the one to drive the wedge between you and Kelly that would eventually turn your relationship sour. It was Ella who suggested, however correctly, that you had no ambition and ran with a bad crowd, and would never be anything but misery for Kelly. Ella also encouraged Kelly's father George heavily in disapproving of you, even withholding sex a few times until he joined her cause. And shortly after the rocky last year of your relationship, it was Ella's idea that George offer Kelly the new car if she dumped you, which of course she did, but let's face it—it was inevitable, the way you bad-mouthed her in front of your friends and begged for hand-jobs regularly. She just picked the right moment and went home with a new car!

Speaking of new cars, you win nothing today, Fitz. Not the car, not the trip to Maui, not even the lousy copy of our home game since we don't have a home game. If we had a nasty box of Rice-a-Roni lying around we probably wouldn't even give you that. Sorry, but that's the way the ball bounces. What you did earn, Fitz, is the awakening of a memory so old and dormant it's pretty dusty, and that's worth more than money can buy or expensive therapy can quickly heal. Life blows, friend.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for jackets left in the coat room. All items are the responsibility of the owner and, hey, if a few expensive items come up missing from pockets, or the entire coat itself, things like that just happen. What? This coat? No, it's new. I just bought it at Lazarus—ask the manager.

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