|  | 
Bob Dylan Knighted By Wasted Guy Outside Night ClubAugust 19, 2002 |
Sir Bob Dylan, himself no stranger to chemical influence ock musician and poet Bob Dylan received the ultimate honor Friday night from an unknown fan believed to be under the influence of several chemical substances. For all his years of service in changing the face of modern music, Dylan was knighted in a brief ceremony behind the Homebrew bar and grill that took only a couple minutes.
Dylan, who was performing an unannounced set at the Homebrew promoting his new album, was extremely surprised and delighted by the honor.
"It was very cool," said Dylan. "You don’t get into this life with thought of major rewards like being knighted. You do it for the music, or maybe the money. This is quite a big moment for me and I’d like to thank the drug-influenced guy who bestowed this upon me, wherever he is."
Dy...
ock musician and poet Bob Dylan received the ultimate honor Friday night from an unknown fan believed to be under the influence of several chemical substances. For all his years of service in changing the face of modern music, Dylan was knighted in a brief ceremony behind the Homebrew bar and grill that took only a couple minutes.
Dylan, who was performing an unannounced set at the Homebrew promoting his new album, was extremely surprised and delighted by the honor.
"It was very cool," said Dylan. "You don’t get into this life with thought of major rewards like being knighted. You do it for the music, or maybe the money. This is quite a big moment for me and I’d like to thank the drug-influenced guy who bestowed this upon me, wherever he is."
Dylan was on his way to the parking lot of the club with friends when the unidentified high guy stopped him in the alley, proclaimed Dylan the man, and knighted him with a very quick tap on each of his shoulders with an empty Thunderbird bottle, pretending it was a sword. He then pissed his pants and stumbled back into the club. Surprised but happy with the honor, Dylan continued on to his car.
"I thought about trying to find the guy, but I didn’t want to insult him after he had just done this very great thing for me. I was also a bit shocked by it all. Even if you expect this sort of thing is going to happen, some alley behind a club is about the last place you’re ready for it."
Columbia Records, Dylan’s label, has jumped all over the high-press event. New releases of all Dylan’s previous albums are being issued with a royal seal on them under the artist heading of "Sir Bob Dylan."
"Everyone at Columbia has always known America has a special genius in Bob Dylan," said Columbia V.P. of Advertising John Bonlee, "and now people everywhere will know that. The dude on heroin or crack or whatever behind that club knew it, and recognized Dylan for his years of service to the music industry and world as a whole."
Sources report that if the blitzed night club rambler can be found, Columbia Records would like to have him knight Dylan again, just for the sake of press, on a two-hour TV special with friends and fellow musicians playing songs in Dylan’s honor. Dylan, who has written rock ’n’ roll and folk staples like "Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man," "Blowin’ in the Wind," and "Like A Rolling Stone," could not verify the possibility of a two-hour TV event, but said he would definitely not want to air opposite Friends and Survivor. the commune news stands for truth, justice, and the American way, but not all at the same time. Ramon Nootles will not stand for injustice, but he doesn’t mind sitting on his fat ass for it.
 | Police: Sasser author quiet type, loner; basic computer geek
 Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Uzbeks protest on behalf of Kyrgystan to demand more vowels
Dean shouts down opponents to head DNC
|
Controversial Rockwell Painting Found in Collection of War Criminal Spielberg Giuliani Woos Conservative Base By Killing Arab Bush Admonishes Tornado’s Cut and Run Policy |
|  |
 | 
 January 20, 2003
Isaac DePlaneIsaac DePlane took off his brain
as it had grown heavy
and his neck was tired.
All filled up with stats
and soluble fats
his poor peachy brain became mired.
"Catch you later, bitch!"
he hucked his brain in a ditch
and he felt wonderfully lightheaded.
Until his eye began to twitch
as he felt a phantom itch
and he forgot about where he was headed.
He wandered into a gas station
and like a mad animation
he drank down three pints of unleaded.
He screamed out names of soups
as he ran 'round in loops
like a chicken very recently beheaded.
Isaac DePlane rode a tugboat to Maine
where he took off his pants in a hurry.
And parading through town
in a homemade mackerel crown
he told folks "They're not live, don't worry."
Speaking of fish
made him hungry and wish
he was eating a salmon-stuffed taco.
But the townspeople were quick
to tire of his shtick
and they made him call his brother Rocco.
He came with their cousin Dino
in a rusty El Camino
and took Isaac to go find his brain.
When they did, Isaac cried
since someone pissed on one side
and it had been left out in the rain.
But in the end he was pleased
he no longer shit when he sneezed
and now things didn't all taste like dreck.
Though in a week he complained

º Last Column: Cakes Are for Baking º more columns
Isaac DePlane took off his brain
as it had grown heavy
and his neck was tired.
All filled up with stats
and soluble fats
his poor peachy brain became mired.
"Catch you later, bitch!"
he hucked his brain in a ditch
and he felt wonderfully lightheaded.
Until his eye began to twitch
as he felt a phantom itch
and he forgot about where he was headed.
He wandered into a gas station
and like a mad animation
he drank down three pints of unleaded.
He screamed out names of soups
as he ran 'round in loops
like a chicken very recently beheaded.
Isaac DePlane rode a tugboat to Maine
where he took off his pants in a hurry.
And parading through town
in a homemade mackerel crown
he told folks "They're not live, don't worry."
Speaking of fish
made him hungry and wish
he was eating a salmon-stuffed taco.
But the townspeople were quick
to tire of his shtick
and they made him call his brother Rocco.
He came with their cousin Dino
in a rusty El Camino
and took Isaac to go find his brain.
When they did, Isaac cried
since someone pissed on one side
and it had been left out in the rain.
But in the end he was pleased
he no longer shit when he sneezed
and now things didn't all taste like dreck.
Though in a week he complained
about being so inconveniently brained
and the unbearable strain on his neck. º Last Column: Cakes Are for Bakingº more columns
| 
|  December 24, 2001
Jeff's Nuts Roasting on an Open FireLately it seems like every-damned-body has been asking me what I'll be doing for Christmas, as if I'm going to say that I'll be attending a Roman Orgy and then invite them along, or that I'm going to slip up and say that I'm taking my doped-up sex zombie out of the closet to beat him with a big rubber tit or something. Then they can act all offended and then say they're not surprised and knew what I was up to all along. I know their game, the bastards. I don't know what gets into people around the holidays, you'd think the eminent threat of an Amtrak train slamming through their living room while they're right in the middle of watching "Furby Christmas Feast" would be plenty of excitement for them, but you'd be surprised. Most still have interest left over to get all up in my shit on a regular basis.
So before I start catching any nosy pricks going through my desk drawers looking for a turkey baster full of heroin, I'm going to set the record straight: I plan on spending this Christmas holed up at the Bricks estate, wrapped around a jug of Mike's Hard Eggnog and watching the Benny Hill marathon with my trusty basset hound, Foghat. And before you start ripping on Benny Hill, know that Foghat doesn't take kindly to such thick-headed slander, and the last fool to attempt such a breech of etiquette discovered later that the "Gravy Train" had made an unscheduled stop in his pennyloafers that night, if you follow my colloquial English here.
Now, I'm sure...
º Last Column: Your Honor, the Whole Damn Vending Machine in the Hall is Out of Order º more columns
Lately it seems like every-damned-body has been asking me what I'll be doing for Christmas, as if I'm going to say that I'll be attending a Roman Orgy and then invite them along, or that I'm going to slip up and say that I'm taking my doped-up sex zombie out of the closet to beat him with a big rubber tit or something. Then they can act all offended and then say they're not surprised and knew what I was up to all along. I know their game, the bastards. I don't know what gets into people around the holidays, you'd think the eminent threat of an Amtrak train slamming through their living room while they're right in the middle of watching "Furby Christmas Feast" would be plenty of excitement for them, but you'd be surprised. Most still have interest left over to get all up in my shit on a regular basis.
So before I start catching any nosy pricks going through my desk drawers looking for a turkey baster full of heroin, I'm going to set the record straight: I plan on spending this Christmas holed up at the Bricks estate, wrapped around a jug of Mike's Hard Eggnog and watching the Benny Hill marathon with my trusty basset hound, Foghat. And before you start ripping on Benny Hill, know that Foghat doesn't take kindly to such thick-headed slander, and the last fool to attempt such a breech of etiquette discovered later that the "Gravy Train" had made an unscheduled stop in his pennyloafers that night, if you follow my colloquial English here.
Now, I'm sure that the few of you who aren't asking yourselves why you don't own such a top-drawer canine are just itching your britches to ask why I'm spending the holidays alone this year, why I'm not nestled in the heart and hearth of friends and family and all that Hallmark shit. Well, the truth of the matter is that I'm still recovering from last year's Christmas debacle, when I spent the holidays with my friend Jeff who was visiting from Tampa and it damn-near turned me into a Buddhist, or some kind of non-Christmasing religious pain in the ass anyway.
Jeff and I go way back, we met during a spontaneous after-bar barfing contest back in college. We became fast friends after Jeff heaved one on a Hell's Angel and we had to dive into the back of a taxi to get away. It turned out that it wasn't even a taxi, just some dude with a yellow car, and I was in the middle of calming the guy down and explaining the situation when Jeff bjorked on that guy, too, and we had to jump out of the car in the middle of the expressway. Man, those were the days.
After college Jeff moved to Tampa to start a Ponzi scheme and I didn't hear from him for I don't know how many years. Though I was pretty sure I saw him in a security camera clip on "Bonehead TV", taking a digger on the wet tile coming out of a bathroom stall in Miami. Then, out of nowhere he calls me up last December and says we should get together and do something for the holidays. The next thing I knew he was on a plane.
Now, just for old time's sake, I played a little joke on Jeff and sent a bunch of guys dressed up like Klansman to pick him up at the airport. Bad idea. I don't know if he'd already paid for an airport shuttle or what, but he was in a seriously bitchy mood when he got to my house. There was a quick remedy for that at the bottom of a case of Safeway's cheapest beer though, and before long we were having a Christmas Eve for the ages.
In no time at all the hard liquor was out, Benny Hill was on the television and there was a roaring fire in the fireplace. We were all drunker than a couple of southern cops on a Saturday night, except for Foghat, who was lost in a world of Benny Hill's slapstick antics.
At some point in the night I asked Jeff what he'd been up to. I mentioned that whenever I'd asked around about him, I'd heard alternately that he was married to an entire tribe down in Peru or Ecuador or some shit, that he'd taken over the role of Birdie in the McDonaldland commercials, and that he was a door-to-door breast pump salesman in the Midwest. In response, he just stood up, dropped his pants and cut loose with a torrential stream of urine into the fireplace. I'm not sure quite what this meant, probably that they were all true, but before I got a chance to ask for clarification the flames leapt up Jeff's pee-stream and he flew about half-way across the room, screaming like a gopher running from a riding mower. Now opinions may differ on the subject, but I thought it was about the funniest thing that had ever happened in the Bricks living room, but then again it wasn't my Ballpark Frank that was getting plumped.
Before I could think to offer him an icepack or something, or even stop laughing myself, Jeff bolted out the door and into the wintry night, half-naked and still smoking. And I'll be damned if I ever saw that crazy fucker again. I doubt that anyone in my neighborhood will forget that night any time soon. Some say that on certain dark and quiet winter nights, you can still hear his woman-like shriek in the wind.
Personally, I'm getting low on old friends to blow up, so this Christmas Eve it'll just be me and Foghat basking in the warm glow of the television, turned up just loud enough to drown out the shrieking of the wind. Bricks out. º Last Column: Your Honor, the Whole Damn Vending Machine in the Hall is Out of Orderº more columns
|

|  |
Milestones1988: Red Bagel's screenplay based on the cover up of the Challenger disaster is rejected for production and accused of being plagiarized from Tootsie.Now HiringRib Sandwich. Tasty barbecue rib sandwich, no experience required, must be available noon today. If position works out, could invite you back every week and some weekends. Please contact Ned Nedmiller at the commune.Best Unreported News| 1. | President Bush Built from Japanese Parts | | 2. | Dale Earnhardt Fans Waiting Like Fanatics for His Return | | 3. | Lawrenceville, KS Shoney's Buffet Huge Fucking Rip-Off | | 4. | RuPaul All Man Underneath Dress | | 5. | Country of Chad Non-Existent, Just Some Joke by Guy Named Chad | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/10/2005 Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where...
Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where she apparently perched gingerly with one cheek on each, or else had herself cloned using trick photography. Whatever the method, Electra has managed to inflict her strange autobiography on the world, an improbable geek epic with one cheek each in the worlds of science fiction and comic bookery. Apparently Electra's ass was too busy to star as itself in the film, so Eva Gardner's great-granddaughter was brought in to plausible effect, despite the fact that she's seven feet tall and looks slightly less like Carmen Electra than I do. All of this was of little importance, however, since the audience's geeklust was satisfied and the film served its purpose as a place-holder before the May release of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Nerds, and the highly anticipated Wookie Cookies tie-in promotion.
Hotel Rwanda
Seeking to hitchhike to the heights they once soared with their pervasively eternal gigantahit "Hotel California," the Eagles released the lesser-known desperate cash-in jingle "Hotel Rwanda" in 1981. Though it shared in many of the original's tasty licks and incomprehensible lyrics, the record-listening public was all "Horse with No Name"ed out by that point and the new tune was a sweaty flop. But leave it to Hollywood to mistake a dismal commercial failure for an underground cult favorite, as they did last year with the release of everything they released last year, so we're treated with a movie adaptation that unwisely drags on beyond the original tune's seven-minute running length. Don Knotts stars as the black guy from Traffic.
Racist Stripes
Finally, some genius has realized that CGI doesn't only stand for "Computers Generate Income" and has crafted an actual computer-animated film without any farting dinosaurs or showtunes-loving sidekicks. In fact, this modern-day retelling of Animal Farm is about as crowd-pleasing as an electrocuted elephant, daring audiences to examine the racist underpinnings of their own warped worldviews. When a naĂŻve zebra named Hitler shows up on the farm one day looking for refuge from a world fixated on his mixed-stripe heritage, he finds instead a powderkeg of simmering ethnic tensions amongst the charmingly celebrity-voiced assemblage of barnyard beasts. Over the next 84 minutes, Hitler teaches the assorted ethnic stereotypes a valuable lesson about equality by winning the county's annual racist races, before being made into glue to pave the way for the purification of the farm. This is one thought-provoking future classic that's perfect for kids you don't like.
Well, there you have it, and while you're holding it I'm going to duck out the back door. Hot potato on you, slow-reacting America. Check back next time and hopefully we'll have more movie reviewing magic, minus the iron lung. Achoo.   |