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 September 26, 2005 |
Elderly Texans line up to tell stories about the unbelievable hurricanes of yore
“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.”
“Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in...
n the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South.
“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.”
“Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.”
“And they call this a hurricane,” sniffed Elmer Controse, 76, of Wicker Falls, who had his entire house flattened by Hurricane Katrina. “Blew my house down, big whup. This is nothing. Back in ’56, Hurricane Chuck blew my house down, then re-arranged it and blew it back up again so that everything was inside-out. All my pictures were hanging on the outside of the house, and my toilet and stove were on the outside, it was like some kind of crazy doll house. But inside, everything was all aluminum siding. Creepy as hell. Now that was a hurricane.”
“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth shit,” opined Daisy Altamont, 91, of Baton Rouge, who had her wedding ring blown up a cat’s ass by Hurricane Beauregard in 1949. “Get back to me after we’ve had the kind of hurricane that ends with you giving an enema to a housecat. But a word to the wise: if that does happen, I’d advise against telling anyone what you did. Apparently it’s illegal to enemize a cat.”
the commune was unable to verify the legal status of giving a cat an enema, but we did discover that it clearly violates American Show Cat Association guidelines, as it can apparently harm a cat’s self-image and lead to problems with bulimia.
Thus far, a consensus of scientists have been unable to confirm the elderly’s claims of mega-hurricanes from the past, arguing instead that hurricanes have been at about the same strength throughout history, and incidentally, the scale of hurricane categories has always gone from one to five, no higher.
“Bullshit,” disagreed longtime Hollywood, Florida, resident Angus Roper, 95, in spite of not having heard the previous paragraph. “When I was a boy, Hurricane Delphina blew my dog inside-out like a sock, right before it blew my grandmother through an oak tree. Not the branches, mind you, the trunk. Granny was never the same after that, chirping like a chipmunk whenever the barometer dropped. You don’t see hurricanes like that anymore.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Cape Hatteras, North Carolina’s Archie Slobertson, apparently displaying some kind of cross-state old-person telepathy. “Hurricane Dandy, now that was a… well, a dandy. Back then the hurricanes didn’t blow sideways like they do now. Nope, hurricane blew straight down. Pushed my whole town underground, no foolin’. Don’t believe me? Look on a map for North Jigglebarrow, you won’t find it! Better get yourself a shovel if you want to visit. Still folks livin’ there from what I hear tell. Yep.” the commune news doesn’t doubt that hurricanes were more powerful back in the good old days, but we do have to question the claims of how much faster computers were back then. Long-dead commune reporter Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown was given this assignment after the stench of death given off by the elderly proved to be too much for any of the commune’s younger reporters to handle.
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 August 18, 2003
The Most Popular Man in North KoreaI admit I have been away from my game for quite a while, so forgive me if some of my best conspiracy theories have already been doled out to you from lesser sources. Have you heard yet that Kim Jong Il is a Cabbage Patch Kid?
Oh, yeah. Well, it's not secret over there. You know how non-Chinese Asian culture has this weird hang-up on celebrating all things America. If you thought it was just the Japanese with their Shonen Knife bands and pompadour haircuts, guess again, friend. The Koreans have always admired our culture, except for the years we were bombing theirs into non-existence. Chiefly their big beloved American fad has always been Cabbage Patch Kids.
In fact, that's how Kim Jong Il managed to seize power. The Koreans weren't initially fond of him, but he used his dad's neverending supply of wealth (by Korean standards) to buy the remnants of the Coleco company and hire scientists to integrate over time his DNA with remaining Cabbage Patch Doll design prints.
It was a brilliant ploy, and you can certainly see the resemblance when you see pictures of the chubby-cheeked, short-statured little menace. But I wouldn't credit him with the originality. His older brother whom we've never heard of, Kim Jong Duc, he was the sharp knife in the drawer over there. He conceived of the idea, then foolishly entrusted his staff, all old football buddies from college, to gather the necessary data to put the plan into operation. Well, to North...
º Last Column: You Can't Picnic Your Friends or Your Nose
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I admit I have been away from my game for quite a while, so forgive me if some of my best conspiracy theories have already been doled out to you from lesser sources. Have you heard yet that Kim Jong Il is a Cabbage Patch Kid?
Oh, yeah. Well, it's not secret over there. You know how non-Chinese Asian culture has this weird hang-up on celebrating all things America. If you thought it was just the Japanese with their Shonen Knife bands and pompadour haircuts, guess again, friend. The Koreans have always admired our culture, except for the years we were bombing theirs into non-existence. Chiefly their big beloved American fad has always been Cabbage Patch Kids.
In fact, that's how Kim Jong Il managed to seize power. The Koreans weren't initially fond of him, but he used his dad's neverending supply of wealth (by Korean standards) to buy the remnants of the Coleco company and hire scientists to integrate over time his DNA with remaining Cabbage Patch Doll design prints.
It was a brilliant ploy, and you can certainly see the resemblance when you see pictures of the chubby-cheeked, short-statured little menace. But I wouldn't credit him with the originality. His older brother whom we've never heard of, Kim Jong Duc, he was the sharp knife in the drawer over there. He conceived of the idea, then foolishly entrusted his staff, all old football buddies from college, to gather the necessary data to put the plan into operation. Well, to North Koreans, Cabbage Patch and Garbage Pail Kid fads are virtually indistinguishable, so you can imagine the horrible offspring from that failed experiment. He was locked away in some basement in the palace of Pongyang, leaving Kim Jong Il unquestionably in charge of the dynasty, and for once, the attractive one in the family.
It took little more than a show of his adorable little adoption papers for the North Korean people to fall in love with this porky dictator, and they pledged undying loyalty to him immediately. Of course, there's little ways to prove this to most people who suspect the information false. Nothing short of pulling down Kim Jong Il's pants and exposing the signature of Xavier Roberts on his fat back cheeks will constitute proof in their eyes. But proof only constitutes one-third of proving something, as we know. The other two-thirds involves wanting to believe it's true and stating it very loudly for all to hear.
Don't insult yourself by asking me where I get my information, since we both know I'm not telling you. Let's just say the guy is an old confidant who has never failed me before, and be reassured I would tell you his name if I could remember. But now that we know the cause of Kim Jong Il's popularity, and I would say you could list linking Cabbage Patch DNA with his own is a possible reason for his deep-seated insanity, we can make every attempt possible to roust him from power.
The CIA, those lovable self-starters, are already at work on this, of course. Given that assassination will cause an international incident, possible war, and create a martyr out of remaining Cabbage Patch Dolls, the Agency has only one solid alternative solution: Create a beloved dictator even more popular than Kim Jong Il. To this end they've been experimenting with genetically-altered Smurf men and other such experiments. Early attempts to create a human-Donkey Kong hybrid were embarrassing failures, and the guy is still throwing barrels off the top of the Sears Tower. More on this as it develops, of course, and if any of you happen to see a living human being who looks strikingly like Howdy Doody, don't hesitate to contact me here for a suitable reward. I'll make you a reporter or something, promise. º Last Column: You Can't Picnic Your Friends or Your Noseº more columns
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|  September 30, 2002
Volume 26Dear commune:
As big a fan as I am, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed with your news lately. At least as far as conspiracy angles go—Red Bagel is the only reliable source in the country, as far as I'm concerned, him and my pharmacist, and lately his columns have just been droning on about minor inconveniences. If he's going to do that, why can't Rok Finger or Stu Umbrage pick up the slack and cover the conspiracies, since Bagel's obviously doing their job.
Everything would be okay if maybe someone would make mention of all these 9-11 conspiracy theories. The French are big on the idea that America is responsible for the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks to stimulate the U.S. military budget, and I hear that and get pretty upset—Mr. Bagel, creating whacked-out stories like that is your job. Maybe I should read the French commune, hmm? They're obviously not afraid to come up with conspiracy theories. If they had a French commune, maybe called le commúne or something, I would read it. But right now it's just an empty threat.
You're lucky I enjoy reading Clarise Sickhead's Bedtime Stories to kids I don't like, otherwise I might stop reading the commune altogether. Come on, you're letting your audience down.
Emil Zender
D'Artagnan, Washington
Dear Emil:
Thanks for your literate spanking; Lil Duncan in particular enjoyed it. We have been dropping the ball here at the commune,...
º Last Column: Volume 25
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Dear commune: As big a fan as I am, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed with your news lately. At least as far as conspiracy angles go—Red Bagel is the only reliable source in the country, as far as I'm concerned, him and my pharmacist, and lately his columns have just been droning on about minor inconveniences. If he's going to do that, why can't Rok Finger or Stu Umbrage pick up the slack and cover the conspiracies, since Bagel's obviously doing their job. Everything would be okay if maybe someone would make mention of all these 9-11 conspiracy theories. The French are big on the idea that America is responsible for the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks to stimulate the U.S. military budget, and I hear that and get pretty upset—Mr. Bagel, creating whacked-out stories like that is your job. Maybe I should read the French commune, hmm? They're obviously not afraid to come up with conspiracy theories. If they had a French commune, maybe called le commúne or something, I would read it. But right now it's just an empty threat. You're lucky I enjoy reading Clarise Sickhead's Bedtime Stories to kids I don't like, otherwise I might stop reading the commune altogether. Come on, you're letting your audience down. Emil Zender
D'Artagnan, WashingtonDear Emil:
Thanks for your literate spanking; Lil Duncan in particular enjoyed it. We have been dropping the ball here at the commune, and we'd rather be famous for our top-of-the-heap conspiracy unraveling than our dropped balls.
The truth is very few of us have seen Red Bagel in person in at least two weeks. He frequently slips his columns under the door to us in the newsroom and refuses to open the door unless we use the secret knock, which he has never shared with us. It is all proof, as far as we can guess, that Mr. Bagel is knee-deep in the darkest conspiracy yet and is simply biding his time, waiting for proof or a lack of other column material to reveal it. Dark men with large mustaches show up at odd hours and drop off brown paper bags full of documents for him, which we slide one by one under the door. The phone rings day and night and someone asks for Red Bagel, who the hell are we, and take a message, then refuses to tell us the message. It's pretty frustrating, but we respect that Mr. Bagel has never shied away from a conspiracy. More than likely whatever he is researching involves the 9-11 attacks, as well as every other major news event in the past 20 years—except for the Baby-Jessica-down-the-well thing, Mr. Bagel assures us that involved mole people and not the government.
As for the French—c'mon, Emil, they're French. If you're going to listen to the French, how are we supposed to communicate seriously with you? Maybe you should look yourself in the mirror and ask if you're not the one with the problem. Listening to the French. Pfffth. Let's not have another letter like this, Emil. We have the power to cut you off from the commune, you know—no more commune for Emil. Get your shit together, please.
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for Red Bagel. Why should we take the blame when his parents aren't going to? He has an agenda that is holy and beyond our understanding. We sure hope that's the case anyway.º Last Column: Volume 25º more columns
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Milestones1983: Night Ranger releases seminal hit Sister Christian, inspiring the unfortunate tone-deaf singalong by Ivan Nacutchacokov that resulted in his lifetime Greyhound bus ban.Now HiringCowboy Bebop. Not really sure what this is, to be honest, but Red Bagel telegrammed to demand we hire one. Two if they come in a matched set. So there you go.Top Nonsensical Curses| 1. | Motherbumper Fannyfuck | | 2. | Shitwheeler | | 3. | Short-Handled Ass Tank | | 4. | Mop-Handle Michelangelo | | 5. | Pelé! | |
|   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.   |
