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$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0912/';
$bageltitle='Strictly for the Inner Circle';
$book='2005/0912/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
$childstar='2005/0829/';
$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0912/';
$drecktitle='Hurricanes are Natures Douche';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='Im Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$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='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0912/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0912/';
$renttitle='Way Inside Jokes';
$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='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
May 26, 2003 |
Hollywood, CA ABC TELEVISION Bachelors Firestone (left) and Buerge (right), the lucky couple... of guys t was another surprise ending for The Bachelor, though this one was a little more Crying Game and a little less America’s Sweethearts. The question had been hanging in the air like a flatulent eagle all week: Would bachelor Andrew Firestone choose spunky Kirsten, whose ass he’d been blatantly checking out since the beginning of the season and who jealous former contestants gossiped was carrying his baby? Or would it be Jen, the slightly less stunning drama queen favored by the show’s viewers and the 23 catty former contestants who lay slain on the battlefield of bogusly contrived romance? Oh shit, dog.
When the answer finally came, it was with the bang of 25 pancake-makeupped jaws hitting the floor in unison. In an unprecedented and possibly illegal...
t was another surprise ending for The Bachelor, though this one was a little more Crying Game and a little less America’s Sweethearts. The question had been hanging in the air like a flatulent eagle all week: Would bachelor Andrew Firestone choose spunky Kirsten, whose ass he’d been blatantly checking out since the beginning of the season and who jealous former contestants gossiped was carrying his baby? Or would it be Jen, the slightly less stunning drama queen favored by the show’s viewers and the 23 catty former contestants who lay slain on the battlefield of bogusly contrived romance? Oh shit, dog. When the answer finally came, it was with the bang of 25 pancake-makeupped jaws hitting the floor in unison. In an unprecedented and possibly illegal move, Firestone passed up both Kirsten and Jen to give his final rose, and we guess a marriage proposal, to former Bachelor star Aaron Buerge. Asked on-camera what he was thinking when he made such an unorthodox choice, Andrew smiled to the audience and beamed proudly. “Are you kidding, all those bitches is crazy!” At that point viewers at home went berserk, throwing chairs and Kleenex boxes around like disappointed apes. In the background, Jen and Kristen held each other’s hair back as they vomited in tandem into a bucket of champagne. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not gay. I just couldn’t handle hanging out with those crazy bitches any longer,” Firestone confided. “If I hear one more girl talk about what font she’d use on wedding invitations, I swear to God I’m going to go all American Psycho on everybody. Shit! Anyway, I met Aaron backstage one night when he was cruising for some rejected bachelorette skank, and we really hit it off. We talked about handguns and the Red Sox, and not once did he bring up floral arrangements. It was the best time I’ve had in months. “That’s when I realized marrying any girl desperate enough to let a gameshow determine her mate for life would be a huge boner. Woo, dodged a bullet with that one!” Firestone exclaimed, exchanging a high-five with Buerge. “Talk about ‘Until me wrapping my lips around a shotgun barrel does us part’! Damn!” Buerge, star of The Bachelor season two, ended up not getting married to that season’s winner Helene Eksterowicz, invalidating the gift certificate to Crate & Barrel that was provided courtesy of the show. “Yeah, things with me and Helene didn’t work out. After the excitement of the show had worn off, I realized all the bright lights and pressure made her seem better than she was. Kind of like on the old Wheel of Fortune when the winner would have all that money to spend, and they’d get the bedroom set with the porcelain Dalmatians. It seems like a good idea at the time. But when you get home, what in the hell are you going to do with a set of life-sized porcelain Dalmatians?” Irate viewers expecting to see one woman’s heart crushed on national television, not two, flooded ABC’s switchboards with complaints, but Firestone insists it was all for the best. “Are you kidding me? Aaron saved my life back there. I felt like I was headed down a dark tunnel with no way to turn around. Then Aaron pulled up in a sweet convertible, or whatever the analogy is, and saved my ass. I could kiss that dude. Not literally though, just ‘cuz he wears my ring doesn’t mean nothing but we’re buds. I go strictly for the easy poontang, as the last six weeks should have made clear.” the commune news advises against getting married on a game show, especially if it’s Nickelodeon’s Double Dare. Ramon Nootles wants it to be known that he also slept with the field of contestants for The Bachelor, but it was before there was a show so nobody made a big deal about it then.
 | Large undecided voter population in Japanese election lack honor
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Saddam Hussein's half-brother half in custody
Clash of the Titans 2: Every Which Way But Zeus Greenlit
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Venezuela Adds Itself to Axis of Evil he so-called Axis of Evil, which now has more points than a pinwheel, took on another member when the forgettable South American country of Venezuela added itself to the roster of anti-U.S. countries this week. The announcement was made in the most awkward fashion, when President Victor Chavez made allegations that the United States has made plans to invade Venezuela soon. How soon? Chavez didnt pinpoint a date, but said the invasion would happen imminently. According to Chavez, the U.S. has been planning to invade his country for some time, and he has proof, although he didnt exactly present it to anybody. The most precise allegation made by Chavez cited invasion training maneuvers being made in his country by CIA operatives, who apparently werent in Venezuela for one of their thousands of monthly beauty pageants. Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneylands French Quarter efugees from the New Orleans disaster were thrilled this week by the news that Mayor Ray Nagin plans to re-open large parts of the city as early as today, allowing the many refugees spread across the American South like spilled milk to finally return home. The decision to return, however, is not so easy for the small number of lucky refugees who were relocated to the French Quarter section of the Disneyland theme park in Anaheim, California during the first days of flooding. This is great, its like being back home, except Disneyer! gushed socialite Anita Bomes, thrilled with her new New Orleans, a quaint miniature version of the city located near a fake lake that, to date, has never flooded. Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It? |
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 April 2, 2007
Rain, Rain, Go Straight to HellThings have been gloomier than usual here at the commune offices, as Flatbush, New Jersey goes through another rain-drenched March. Some have always admired rain, looked into the gloomy darkness overhead and the water fluttering down from the sky and seen it as some kind of cleansing of the earth, a washing-away of the dust and grime coating the planet and the nourishing of its lush green life. I say that's horseshit. Rain is nothing but the entire population of a city, state, or country being thrown into the swimming pool a teaspoon full at a time.
God's laughing at us when it rains. That's right—I accept the Judeo-Christian concept of God, and sometimes He's a right asshole. If He's so perfect, couldn't he find a more productive way of doing whatever rain has to do? Why make plants that grow in the middle of a landlocked mass need water at all? It makes less sense than a movie starring Adam Sandler as a romantic lead. God's capable of making spiders, who reproduce with hundreds of offspring and spin elaborate webs to feed themselves, but the best he could do to get water around to all the soil is just to drop it out of the sky. I'm surprised He stopped there. Why not just have chicken wings plunge from the clouds whenever people need feeding? Hold your mouths open like turkeys staring at the sky, spit out the bones, there's no need to even take lunch. It's better than getting soaking wet through some ill-conceived water delivery system.
Imagine the...
º Last Column: I Don't Cotton to Spandex º more columns
Things have been gloomier than usual here at the commune offices, as Flatbush, New Jersey goes through another rain-drenched March. Some have always admired rain, looked into the gloomy darkness overhead and the water fluttering down from the sky and seen it as some kind of cleansing of the earth, a washing-away of the dust and grime coating the planet and the nourishing of its lush green life. I say that's horseshit. Rain is nothing but the entire population of a city, state, or country being thrown into the swimming pool a teaspoon full at a time. God's laughing at us when it rains. That's right—I accept the Judeo-Christian concept of God, and sometimes He's a right asshole. If He's so perfect, couldn't he find a more productive way of doing whatever rain has to do? Why make plants that grow in the middle of a landlocked mass need water at all? It makes less sense than a movie starring Adam Sandler as a romantic lead. God's capable of making spiders, who reproduce with hundreds of offspring and spin elaborate webs to feed themselves, but the best he could do to get water around to all the soil is just to drop it out of the sky. I'm surprised He stopped there. Why not just have chicken wings plunge from the clouds whenever people need feeding? Hold your mouths open like turkeys staring at the sky, spit out the bones, there's no need to even take lunch. It's better than getting soaking wet through some ill-conceived water delivery system. Imagine the scenario, good people: You've put on your best work suit, combed your hair into a stylish pompadour that's a magnet for the ladies, and you strut out the door early in the morning. Then some obstinate little shit pelts you with a condom full of mineral water. I suppose you addle-minded hippies would look up at him and blather on about the inherent beauty of getting pranked by a little preteen bastard. You'd write songs about water balloons and lovers would curl up next to the fire telling each other they sure like the smell in the air after you get socked in the face with a swishy prophylactic. To hell with that. You've been punked, nature-lover. I'm not sure why I alone have this special insight, that rain is nothing but an amateur April Fool's joke. Perhaps standing at 3-foot-eight-inches and being particularly vulnerable to floods and watery basements makes me warier of water falling from the sky than most people. I don't accept all of the Bible as a literal interpretation, but I do believe there was a flood. I admit, I skipped around through parts of it, but I think I have the general gist—40 days and nights of rain (yeah, God, real funny), build a monstrous boat, take two of each animal. I'm not sure the wisdom of that, taking a couple of dinosaurs that are bound to eat the rest of the animals, instead of taking your hundred or so best friends. But I'm not concerned with that, I only want to keep a close eye on rain in case it gets the wise idea to do the same thing again. I haven't exactly kept up with my boat-making skill, and if I were hard-pressed to start collecting animals right now, I would only be able to find a couple of diferent breeds of dogs and a cockatiel. However, let's make one thing clear: I will not hear a word against snow. Snow is the antithesis of rain—it's light and flickering instead of pelting and obstinate; it's pure and charming, instead of cruel and clothes-ruining. Plus, it sticks together and makes snow men. Anything that allows itself to be shaped by men into mock people cannot be bad. You just try and make a rainman, see where that will get you—a watery retarded man who counts matchsticks easily. Yeah, that was a great idea. º Last Column: I Don't Cotton to Spandexº more columns
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|  September 16, 2002
Tonight I Dine on VictoryYou see, George? I told you the name of that movie was Deep Blue Sea, the one where the sharks eat the people. I should know, it's probably one of the best movies I've ever seen. Yet you doubted me. Well, tonight I dine on victory.
Lake Placid? How you could get a movie about a giant alligator in a small town confused with a movie about hyper-intelligent sharks eating all the people at a floating sea lab? No victory for you, George. You clearly don't keep good inventory on your mutated-creature-attacks-people movies. I, on the other hand, who do keep good inventory on my mutated-creature-attacks-people movies, will be eating big fat slabs of victory tonight, right off the bone.
Not that Lake Placid is a bad film, George—that's not my argument at all. Bill Pullman, Bridget Fonda, Oliver Platt, a great cast all around. But are you honestly telling me you mixed up Oliver Platt with Samuel L. Jackson? An incalculable error on your part, George, which is why I munch victory chips and you get crow. Enjoying your crow, George? I've had to eat crow far too many times to feel sorry for you. I've eaten enough crow for the population of India in my years. And they're practically starving, George, so you know they would eat a lot of crow. But tonight my soup is filled with chunks of victory.
What about the sheriff? There's not even a sheriff in Deep Blue Sea. Not that I'm not enjoying delicious victory-chip cookies...
º Last Column: I Don't Even Know How to Bring Up the Subject of an Orgy º more columns
You see, George? I told you the name of that movie was Deep Blue Sea, the one where the sharks eat the people. I should know, it's probably one of the best movies I've ever seen. Yet you doubted me. Well, tonight I dine on victory.
Lake Placid? How you could get a movie about a giant alligator in a small town confused with a movie about hyper-intelligent sharks eating all the people at a floating sea lab? No victory for you, George. You clearly don't keep good inventory on your mutated-creature-attacks-people movies. I, on the other hand, who do keep good inventory on my mutated-creature-attacks-people movies, will be eating big fat slabs of victory tonight, right off the bone.
Not that Lake Placid is a bad film, George—that's not my argument at all. Bill Pullman, Bridget Fonda, Oliver Platt, a great cast all around. But are you honestly telling me you mixed up Oliver Platt with Samuel L. Jackson? An incalculable error on your part, George, which is why I munch victory chips and you get crow. Enjoying your crow, George? I've had to eat crow far too many times to feel sorry for you. I've eaten enough crow for the population of India in my years. And they're practically starving, George, so you know they would eat a lot of crow. But tonight my soup is filled with chunks of victory.
What about the sheriff? There's not even a sheriff in Deep Blue Sea. Not that I'm not enjoying delicious victory-chip cookies over my win, but I don't understand how you could so clearly confuse a small town with a partially submerged sea lab. Did the diving suits not give it away at all? When the fellow at the party asked what was the movie with Samuel L. Jackson where the sharks are trying to kill him, and you said, "Oh, Lake Placid!" did it not seem at all possible that sharks in a movie about a lake was a major blunder?
The more I think about it, the victory isn't all that sweet. Sure, it's good, especially for a change since I've so often had big fat crow while you chomped victory, but I didn't want to win this way. It takes some of the fun out of it. Did you let me win on purpose? Is it possible you fouled up the movie title so completely hoping that I would pick up the ball and run the touchdown? Seriously, George, it's starting to bother me—are you retarded? Not that it's a problem if you are, but if you have suddenly become retarded during the course of the party last night, I need to know. I sure didn't want to win this way.
I'm starting to see you in a whole new light, George. Sitting here, cutting my victory into small pieces and eating it quietly… you're not at all the impenetrable fortress of knowledge I once thought you to be. You're truly fallible, aren't you? Especially where your weak knowledge of modern giant creature movies comes in.
It was bound to happen, I guess. Maybe before I was too awestruck by your ability to recall most movies without failure, to beat me to an answer and make me look like a jackass. I imagine those days are over, and I'm a little sad. I won't be eating crow anymore, just sweet, sweet victory, but still, it changes the way I see things now. The rosy-colored glasses are off and I see you for what you are—a buffoon, I dare say, when it comes to telling the difference between giant shark and giant alligator movies. God forbid someone ever asks you about Gator or Jaws—you're liable to burst a blood vessel and drool all over yourself and become a complete vegetable.
Let's hope it was a one-time thing, for both of us, and never speak of it again. Here—share my victory. Just this one time. º Last Column: I Don't Even Know How to Bring Up the Subject of an Orgyº more columns
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Quote of the Day“It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that's completely impossible by the laws of physics and laughable to every sane person.”
-Mark TwaintFortune 500 CookieThis is the week you finally snap. All those years spent strengthening your middle finger and thumb are really going to pay off big-time, playa. Try keeping your dehydrated mashed potato flakes and your dandruff collection in different-colored boxes this week, just in case that last date ever comes back. Oh, that autobiography you wrote in l33t? Yeah dude, nobody can read that shit. This week's lucky porn cameos: Jenna Jameson in the pilot of that awesome new Hoarders spin-off, Whoreders, Big Bird in Larry Bird: Big Bird, The Ghost of John Holmes in everything else you watch because you burnt that shit into your plasma, dumbass, and …wait, Ron Jeremy in your wedding video? WTF?
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Me vs. the Turkey Vulture: How the Turkey Vulture Cheated | | 2. | 101 Things You Can Sell for Crack | | 3. | Touched by an Angel: "I Was Molested by Gabriel" | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Pork Vegan Salad | | 5. | The Moral Majority's Make-Up Tips for Whores | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/19/2004 Buenos reados, America! I'm Roland McShyster and goddamn if you didn't come back for another week of Entertainment Policification. It's enough to make a weak man cry. Well, you've done your part, so I suppose it's time for me to do mine. On to this week's movies!
In Theaters
Along Came Paulie
Ben Stiller is the world's biggest pussy until a wisecracking talking bird straightens him out in this, probably the worst use of the "faux-documentary" technique yet. Believe me, I can understand the motivation to use crappy hand-held cameras to make a ludicrous premise seem more believable, plus it leaves more budget money for those delicious little rolled-up deli meats. But as the saying goes, you can't make a silk shirt...
Buenos reados, America! I'm Roland McShyster and goddamn if you didn't come back for another week of Entertainment Policification. It's enough to make a weak man cry. Well, you've done your part, so I suppose it's time for me to do mine. On to this week's movies!
In Theaters
Along Came Paulie
Ben Stiller is the world's biggest pussy until a wisecracking talking bird straightens him out in this, probably the worst use of the "faux-documentary" technique yet. Believe me, I can understand the motivation to use crappy hand-held cameras to make a ludicrous premise seem more believable, plus it leaves more budget money for those delicious little rolled-up deli meats. But as the saying goes, you can't make a silk shirt out of a pig's ass. Speaking of which, I'd like to meet the guy who thought you could, because that's one optimistic son of a bitch. I need that guy writing fortune cookies for me. Anyway, if you really think you need to see this movie, just watch Cujo with the Spanish subtitles on. You'll be just as pissed and you won't have to wait in line for popcorn.
The Butterfinger Effect
Ashton Kutcher is a vaguely good-looking klutz in his latest film, in which he also has an acting role. Kutcher plays a bumbling Mountain Dew dude who utilizes the nasty side effects of antihistamine medication to travel back in time and try not to drop shit everywhere. But he learns the hard lesson that going back in time just allows him to trip over shit and knock down huge displays of dominos twice, and that the past is the same as the present, only sort of yellow-tinted. Unfortunately the film is ultimately done in by its own implausibility, since if this kind of time travel were possible the filmmakers would have obviously gone back in time and made The Blair Witch Project instead. Thankfully for them, the soundtrack is filled with the kind of nauseous crap young people pretend to listen to these days, so the movie is still bound to attract teens like a giant, flashing bug zapper on Hollywood's front lawn regardless of quality.
Mindhunters
If you've never seen a slanty-browed redneck in camouflage overalls blow up a deer using only the power of his mind, well then I'd wager a week's salary you've never seen Mindhunters. Either that or you just really weren't paying any attention at all, or maybe you had to get up to piss every five minutes and the people sitting around you didn't have the common courtesy to answer basic plot questions when you got back. Whatever happened, you missed a hell of a movie. Not really, but I like to say that sometimes. Actually, saying you missed a movie like this is kind of like saying you dodged a bullet or almost got hit by a bus, people should slap you on the back and take you out to lunch. You might even take stock of your life; think about maybe being a little nicer to that Malaysian family you've got hidden in your attic. It's that bad. If you saw it on purpose, I can only hope you're either a fellow movie reviewer (in which case, "Yo!") or are Val Kilmer's mom, because otherwise you're a marked man. Unless you're a woman.
Wow. Okay America, it's safe to come out now. You've had your socks blown off and your asses blown clean out of your pants, as expected. And what did it cost you? Not enough. We've got to figure out some way to get more cash coming my way in this whole transaction. I'll get back to you on that one, so don't go blowing all your greenbacks at the beer tent or on nickel whores before my next column, caprice?   |