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Bin Laden Fails to Show Up for Terrorism Awards ShowOctober 29, 2001 |
Washington, DC Junior Bacon Even Destiny's Child's sizzling performance was not enough to bring the reclusive Saudi out of hiding
“Obviously, we’re sad to see not one of the big winners this year turned out,” said Special Forces Commander Joe Don Dawson, presenter of this year’s Outstanding Terrorist Event award. “It’s a huge shame. But really, it was sort of a longshot anyway. I mean, that they’d show up.”
Dawson then gave a hand signal and several dozen black-clad commandoes rappelled down the side of the auditorium walls, disassembling their weapons and moving single file to the exits.
<...
ast night’s Academy of Terrorism Awards show was a disappointment to all, as the coveted Terrorist of the Year award was won by no-show Osama bin Laden. The awards show, held at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., in fact failed to supply any of the terrorists who won awards. “Obviously, we’re sad to see not one of the big winners this year turned out,” said Special Forces Commander Joe Don Dawson, presenter of this year’s Outstanding Terrorist Event award. “It’s a huge shame. But really, it was sort of a longshot anyway. I mean, that they’d show up.” Dawson then gave a hand signal and several dozen black-clad commandoes rappelled down the side of the auditorium walls, disassembling their weapons and moving single file to the exits. Some news sources have claimed the Terrorism Awards show is an overt attempt to lure bin Laden and other Al Qaeda terrorist network officials out of hiding so the U.S. government can apprehend them. “Who told you—“ started President George W. Bush, then correcting himself in a calm manner, responded, “Of course not. The Academy of Terrorism presents these awards annually for outstanding, uh… you know, excellencism in the field of terrorism and such.” According to other news sources, despite the president’s claim, this is the first year on record for the Terrorism Awards show. In fact, no address for the Academy of Terrorism could be verified, and names given as leaders of the Academy are all obvious joke names like “Seymour Cox” and “Jacques Trap.” If the Academy of Terrorism and the Awards show are both genuine, it stands as a great coincidence all recipients of this year’s “Boomie” awards were also on the U.S. Most Wanted Terrorists list recently released by President Bush. the commune news is never as “news” as you want it to be and certainly not as much “commune” as you were expecting. Lil Duncan runs a tight ship here, boys, and no one gets off without her permission.
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European Playstation gets more play for less work and higher taxes
Sudan peace plan calls for Led Zeppelin song about Darfur
 Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population  Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho |
Senator Wins Lottery, Quits "Shitty Job" epublican Senator Judd Gregg finally ran into a big steaming pile of luck Wednesday when he matched 5 of 6 Powerball numbers and won a lottery jackpot of $853,492. Gregg immediately called Vice-President Dick Cheney to let his boss know he would not be coming into work. “It’s about friggin’ time I got some good luck,” Gregg told reporters in front of his home in his home state of New Hampshire. Gregg waved his winning ticket in the air frantically and laughed. “Eat it, taxpayers! I’m gonna be my own boss from now on!” Gregg, who chairs the Senate Budget Committee and spent more than $2 million in his last re-election campaign, did admit to some sour grapes in not winning the $340 million jackpot won by an Oregon player in the same lottery. the commune's Fall Gadget Guide t’s almost the time of year to start pretending you’re Christmas shopping while you look for swanky new shit for yourself, and the commune is there for you with our first-ever annual Fall Gadget Guide. Join commune Tech Correspondent Mitch Kroeger as he guides you through the bewildering wilderness of the new and the shiny. Who’s the Black Pit That Killed a Night Club Prick? Elevator Shaft — Damn Right Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling |
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 May 30, 2005
The New War on PovertyIt's about time to resume the "War on Poverty" that we started in the 1960's. And when I say "we," I mean soft-hearted liberals who needed a slogan for re-election. But this time, we do the War on Poverty right. I'm talking big guns.
After all, we can't eliminate poverty, any more than we can eliminate terror. That's been my objection to the president's War on Terror all along. And before you go thinking I've gone all NPR on you guys, that doesn't mean we should give up. Let's just refocus the War on Terror. Make it the War on Terrorists, which is what it already is. Wipe them all out from the face of the earth—if you're not wit' us, you're a'gin us. And that's what we got to do with the War on Poverty: Wipe out the impoverished.
It doesn't have to be a hateful war, but we've got to get rid of them all the same. They're just going to drag us all down with them. And even if they don't, they'll still make our lives hell—asking for money, especially around the holidays, starring in documentaries that clog our independent theaters, and just generally hanging around and making us feel bad. We can't let them run our lives anymore. Wipe out the impoverished.
We can get it started it easy enough—since they don't have houses, we can find most of them out in the open, where they're easy to get at. Eventually, though, we'll have to take it to the next level. Hunt them down in the housing projects, in the trailer parks, even in the...
º Last Column: Queers Vote Kerry
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It's about time to resume the "War on Poverty" that we started in the 1960's. And when I say "we," I mean soft-hearted liberals who needed a slogan for re-election. But this time, we do the War on Poverty right. I'm talking big guns.
After all, we can't eliminate poverty, any more than we can eliminate terror. That's been my objection to the president's War on Terror all along. And before you go thinking I've gone all NPR on you guys, that doesn't mean we should give up. Let's just refocus the War on Terror. Make it the War on Terrorists, which is what it already is. Wipe them all out from the face of the earth—if you're not wit' us, you're a'gin us. And that's what we got to do with the War on Poverty: Wipe out the impoverished.
It doesn't have to be a hateful war, but we've got to get rid of them all the same. They're just going to drag us all down with them. And even if they don't, they'll still make our lives hell—asking for money, especially around the holidays, starring in documentaries that clog our independent theaters, and just generally hanging around and making us feel bad. We can't let them run our lives anymore. Wipe out the impoverished.
We can get it started it easy enough—since they don't have houses, we can find most of them out in the open, where they're easy to get at. Eventually, though, we'll have to take it to the next level. Hunt them down in the housing projects, in the trailer parks, even in the mountains, where they're bunched up together 25-to-100 per house. Sure, my soft side wants to give them all a free ride, but it's by being pushovers we've been overrun with poverty all this time.
The best part is, we don't need a new army to do it. Put the police to work doing what they were originally created for anyway—to keep the poor out of our hair. But give them their teeth back, no more of this back-alley beating crap and telling people to "move along." We start the War on Poverty, I mean really start it, and the police can finally do what they were meant to do. Round 'em up and march 'em into the nearest large body of water. Or if that's too unsanitary, maybe launch them into space. Give them a chance to colonize a planet full of moochers and layabouts.
We'll need to set firm criteria so we don't have everybody out in the streets getting shot by people riding polo ponies and everything. Set a bottomline income bracket above which everyone gets to live, and then root out the nickel-and-dimeless. I used to think a metal detector of some sort would help find whose got money and who doesn't, but anybody walking around with pocket change is probably below the minimum income bracket, or just scraping together enough to stay above it.
People say I'm full of hate to suggest such a thing. I tell them to shut up before I choke them to death. Because I'm not full of hate. I just think everybody needs to pull their own weight, or pull whatever weight they're told to pull. The world needs workers and the world needs bosses. What they don't need is people who refuse to be either. I send my money to the government each week, and it's always more than I like, so they can keep the roads in good shape for me to drive on and to keep the kids from turning out retarded. Judging by the noise on the radio and the TV, I'm not sure that last part is working out. But I know I don't send my money to the government so we can support freeloaders, the infirm, or those who can't swing a hammer or a shovel or whatever for 8-12 hours a day. Or write a column, of course—angry columnists provide the most valuable service of all. º Last Column: Queers Vote Kerryº more columns
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|  February 17, 2003
Rok's Gotta Have ItRok Finger is back in the dating pool, good people. So he better not feel any warm water around you teen-agers, because I get violent when standing in piss.
You read right—violent standing in piss. True, too, before the piss part: I'm playing the field again. The outfield, and it's lonely out here. Truthfully I've been available since being split from my wife last year by my own indignation, outrage, and paranoia, but I'm actively seeking female companionship for coupling now. And I mean now, as we speak. I might be getting around to your neighborhood soon, so you pretty single ladies meet me out by your mailboxes. And you pretty unavailable ladies, just make sure your husband's at work, or at least smaller than 4 foot tall and unable to kickbox.
I'm no homewrecker, despite what those repair people and Camembert say. But it's about time Rok Finger got "serviced," if you know what I mean. Yes, of course: intercourse. Or at least simple female companionship, as long as some genital contact is involved on some level. I'm a little "hot under the collar," that's how we used to phrase it in the neighborhood I grew up in. I could use a little "loosening up," especially as provided by "hours and hours of animal-like fucking." I read the last part in a book once, or it was something Lee said.
I'm a private man, as my national column often attests, and it's difficult to express your feelings sometimes, especially tingly below-the-waist...
º Last Column: I Have Discovered the Identity of the Masked Dude
º more columns
Rok Finger is back in the dating pool, good people. So he better not feel any warm water around you teen-agers, because I get violent when standing in piss.
You read right—violent standing in piss. True, too, before the piss part: I'm playing the field again. The outfield, and it's lonely out here. Truthfully I've been available since being split from my wife last year by my own indignation, outrage, and paranoia, but I'm actively seeking female companionship for coupling now. And I mean now, as we speak. I might be getting around to your neighborhood soon, so you pretty single ladies meet me out by your mailboxes. And you pretty unavailable ladies, just make sure your husband's at work, or at least smaller than 4 foot tall and unable to kickbox.
I'm no homewrecker, despite what those repair people and Camembert say. But it's about time Rok Finger got "serviced," if you know what I mean. Yes, of course: intercourse. Or at least simple female companionship, as long as some genital contact is involved on some level. I'm a little "hot under the collar," that's how we used to phrase it in the neighborhood I grew up in. I could use a little "loosening up," especially as provided by "hours and hours of animal-like fucking." I read the last part in a book once, or it was something Lee said.
I'm a private man, as my national column often attests, and it's difficult to express your feelings sometimes, especially tingly below-the-waist feelings, but I've been waiting too long for companionship and when the mystery enigma charade doesn't draw in the ladies, I figure honesty can't do any worse. I can always say I was lying about that, too. But it's high time Rok Finger met a good woman to spend time with, horizontal time, and my definition of "good" opens a little more each day. Give me a few weeks and attractive drag queens may apply as well.
There's something about sharing an apartment with two men and a shit-filled catbox that makes you question the single life. Fun has been fun, except when it hasn't been, but after too long you begin to desire a sense of order, and breasts. My past wives have all been bitter harpies, even before I married them, but all have brought that much-needed discipline to my life. Let's face it, I'm a mess alone—I need someone to encourage my moral snobbery, to heal the wounds on my bruised ego, to convince me to quit shitting in the catbox.
As you can see, it's not just any woman I seek—though I will accept any woman on a short-term basis as earlier implied. No, it takes a woman of strong character, like Eleanor Roosevelt without the socialism, or Blondie. Are my standards too high? Prostitutes tell me that. And maybe it's true. But sometimes it's necessary to set high standards, for ourselves and especially for others, and make everyone meet them. Unless you're talking brief sexual contact, at which point my standards are still slipping. Another month and farm animals with convincing attire will be able to sweet-talk me.
Have no fear, good people. Rok Finger will continue to report on everything that matters in life, including his own private feelings that make others extremely uncomfortable. This little mental sidetrack has proved to me I've gotten a little off-course since leaving Arvelyn (did you read that, Arvelyn? I left you. Now it's in print). But it's only a matter of time before this high-flying hot air balloon has the baggage needed to ground it, and I return to my fine form. Of course, I'll never pass my 1970s columns. Man, those were sweet top-of-the-game editions. Except for the muttonchops; I'm ready to admit now they were a bad idea. º Last Column: I Have Discovered the Identity of the Masked Dudeº more columns
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Quote of the Day“There's more than one way to skin a cat. But only one reason: cat skin tacos.”
-Emil the Lonely ChefFortune 500 CookieYou will become unbearably wealthy this week, and pen a beautifully-written suicide note. Donkey meat tastes just like chicken, but don't leave the hooves on unless you want your dinner guests seriously freaking out on you. This week's lucky swear words: fafuck, dickfish, shatly, bitcheese, cashit, cabbageass, shitch.
Try again later.Best Sellers| 1. | The Bridges of Macon County, Georgia
Bobby Ray Poker | | 2. | The Lord of the Tacky Pimp Rings
J.Z.Z.Z. Toolking | | 3. | Mary Contrary, Are You on the Rag Today?
Dr. Soobst | | 4. | Oprah's Book Club Can Eat Me
Jonathan Franzen | | 5. | I Sure Miss the Cold War
Tom Clancy | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 12/8/2003 A hearty "Yo" to you all, America, and welcome to the umptillionth edition of Roland McShyster's Entertainment Police, now a trademarked brand and theme restaurant in three states. We've got the candy you crave yet again this week, so let's waste no time peeling back that Hollywood Band-Aid and scowling at the owie that is this week's new releases:
In Theaters
Honey
Mariah Carrey is back, stinking up the screen in this, her latest attempt to prove that brother Jim didn't get all the acting talent in that family. If I were her, I'd settle for being known as "The Singing Carrey," because after squirming through brother Jim's off-key warbling in Mule in Rouge I don't expect her to suffer much competition...
A hearty "Yo" to you all, America, and welcome to the umptillionth edition of Roland McShyster's Entertainment Police, now a trademarked brand and theme restaurant in three states. We've got the candy you crave yet again this week, so let's waste no time peeling back that Hollywood Band-Aid and scowling at the owie that is this week's new releases:
In Theaters
Honey
Mariah Carrey is back, stinking up the screen in this, her latest attempt to prove that brother Jim didn't get all the acting talent in that family. If I were her, I'd settle for being known as "The Singing Carrey," because after squirming through brother Jim's off-key warbling in Mule in Rouge I don't expect her to suffer much competition for that title. Her prospects for one day being known as "The Acting Carrey" are unfortunately slim and none, and Slim can't act either. If she got any of the acting talent in that family, she left it in her other pants because here she stinks on ice like Nancy Kerrigan's gangrenous left knee.
The Last Samurai Show
The cruelly good-looking secret brother of commune toilet brush Alamo Cruise, embarrassing cult religion enthusiast Tom Cruise is back and John Belushing up a storm as usual in this gaijin comedy epic. Cruise's main squeeze Penelope "She's Not My Sister (wink, wink)" Cruise is strangely absent from the film, though whether this can be attributed to a lover's spat or the fact that there were no Mexican people in Japan in the 1800's is hard to say. Personally, I think they could have Jackie Chaned her into the script somehow, so look out for tabloid news of Cruise dropping a bombshell on his sisterly bombshell in the near future, mark my hypertexted words.
Lords of the Ring: Rerun of the King
Elvis Presley is back, and it turns out that instead of dying as the media reported, he actually wrestled some kind of amphetamine demon to the death on the toilet seat that fateful night, only to come back dressed all in white—or at least slightly more white than he was already known for wearing. Now he's taken up a second career as a boxing promoter in this third installment of the loosely-related "Ring" series, not to be mistaken for the pants-shitting scary movie about the little girl who sneaks out of your TV and eats all your Tollhouse cookies if you return your rental videos late. I for one was ready for an Elvis comeback, since somebody has to teach this latest generation of popamuffins how to croak through grotesque excess, but if your brain did you the favor of blanking out the memory of the first two films, this one's going to make about as much sense as a Japanese beer commercial.
Pig Fish
Famed screwball director Tim "Burt" Burton is back with his cast of circus freaks and non-gay fairies in this romp through the realm of the colorfully far-fetched. The cinematic answer to "If a pig and a fish had sex, what would they have?" (the traditional punchline of "An abortion" was apparently not P.C. enough for this studio), Pig Fish stars sporting goods heir Ewan MacGregor and world's fattest elf Danny Devito as the two opposing heads of the resultant hideous animal hybrid. MacGregor's the fastidious and methodical front end, while DeVito is the crass slob of a rear, making sure they're always on each other's nerves, literally. Though in all sincerity I have no idea how you decide which is the front or back end of a symmetrical genetic freak animal, I guess it's just Hollywood's bias for giving ribald slobs the ass end of the stick shining through here. It's kind of like those maps that show the world upside-down, with Australia on top. You can't really say they're wrong, but it hurts your brain to think about it. Same thing with this movie.
Something's Gotta Give Jack Nicholson a Heart Attack
Hilariously middle-aged arterial clog Jack Nicholson is back, in the latest comedy to bank on his not being young any more. Based on the sound premise that Jack's gotta go some time, and it's not likely to be yanking tots out of a flaming orphanage, Something's Gotta Give Jack Nicholson a Heart Attack basically plays like a role call of hilarious scenarios in which Jack Nicholson might buy the farm. Several of them include seeing Diane Keaton naked, which is funny enough, but the suspense really isn't there since everybody knows that if seeing Kathy Bates in the buff didn't do it, whatever sagging Keaton may have going on doesn't stand a streaker's chance in Hell of landing Jackie boy in the crypt. Keanu Reeves reprises his role as a pasty loser who thinks he knows karate.
Stuck on Your Ass
Hollywood's never had an original idea without having it again about ten seconds later, and if it's not fathers and sons trading bodies it's some sad sack odd couple being stuck in the same one. While Pig Fish approaches this idea from the surreal computer-animated side, the concurrent odd twin grafted to that film's ass, Stuck on Your Ass, takes a more literal approach. In this one, John Wayne lookalike Matt Damon and Greg "They Killed" Kinnear play normal twin brothers who accidentally got siamesed in a hospital mix-up when a dyslexic doctor bonered their chart with that of a three little Nepalese boys who'd been chain-ganged by Nature. I leave you to draw your own conclusions.
Well that's that and a rat-a-tat-tat, America. Glad you could make it and were able to take some time out of your busy schedule this holiday season, taking a break from planning out just how you're going to distribute the kindness and goodwill that you've been bottling up and repressing all year. See you around, America.   |
