Motherfuckers Still Blowing Up Shit in Beirut

ssholes continue their onslaught of terrorism in the Western Front with a bombing of some important building.

Although details are sketchy, something resembling a building was blown up by several religious fucks believed to be complete assholes in their personal lives with their unbending fanatical devotion to their religion and complete lack of humor.

"These are probably not the same twisted fucks who bombed a bunch of shit back in the '80s," said Michael Winslow, a reknowned authority on religious assholes who bomb shit. "But frankly, they're all the same. For some reason they really think we can tell them apart. They couldn't be more wrong."

Winslow was not optimistic about these assholes getting their shit together.

"From what I hear these assholes' god is demanding they blow shit up until everyone else is dead. So they'll probably continue to do it. Unless we blow them all up. Or kill their god. When there's only one god left I imagine He'll be happy. And stop fucking up our daily lives."

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This week's Nedmiller Column is excerpted from "Spastic Diaper: The Ned Nedmiller Story" by Rolando Burf. Continued from last week.

And it might still be that way today if it weren't for one Nedriff Nipplebelt Nedmiller. When Ned heard of the buffalo problem, he locked himself in his laboratory, pronouncing that he would not appear again until he had the solution. Neighbors wondered at the strange noises coming from Ned's lab at all hours of the day and night: the singing of saws, the burping of crows and the vague smell of a swimming pool on fire. Someone called for a constable when a rumor circulated that Ned was melting down school children into paraffin wax, but just as the fuzz was about to knock on Ned's door, the man himself flung open his doors and announced to the world that their problems were over.

The device that Ned presented to the world looked like a cross between a smallish piano and a largish dentistry utensil, on wheels. It had a crank on one side and a flared cone on the other. And on top there was a mannequin head wearing a hat. On the side, hand-lettered in on it's black surface in black paint (or so he told the people), it said "Ned Nedmiller's Framjambulous Laughing Machine".

Refusing the spectators' pleas for a demonstration, Ned hopped aboard the Laughing Machine and rode it west, toward the Plains. It was a four-week journey, but thanks to the help of a flock of pelicans, and Ned's invention of a land-sail, it only took him a month and a half. He arrived to find the Chinamen, sitting about and scratching their heads, as a stoic buffalo stood, motionless, at the eastern termination of the Walking Rail.

Without saying a word, Ned positioned his Laughing Machine in front of the buffalo, wet his thumb to check wind direction, and gave the crank a furious crank. Laughter of every size and denomination, every type and at all points along the spectrum of sanity, poured forth from the laughing machine's cone. Chortles, titters, guffaws and even silent shaking filled the air. Three times the laughter produced by a fart in Congress spilled out of the Laughing Machine. Laughter so contagious that all of the Chinamen began to laugh along, and those who had yet to drop their tools and daydream now dropped their tools and doubled over in laughter.

The buffalo first looked at Ned (who nodded) in a confused fashion for a moment before it began to laugh. For those who have never heard a buffalo laugh, I suggest climbing inside an industrial textiles washing machine, starting up the cycle, and then letting loose the warthogs you've been hiding in your pants. Then you'll have bigger fish to fry than wondering what a buffalo sounds like when it laughs.

The buffalo laughed and laughed until finally it collapsed onto it's side and shook with buffalo laughter. Ned promptly shut off his laughing machine and when the Chinamen had recovered, they went about their merry task, building their Walking Rail all the way to New England. Ned accompanied them the rest of the way, providing laughing machine support whenever they came across buffalo, brown bears or hillbillies.

When they finally arrived in New York, Ned and the Chinamen were given a tickertape parade, and a recording contract with Capitol Records. In a show of gratitude, the Mayor of New York gave them all complimentary tickets for the maiden voyage of the first luxury liner built entirely by the blind, the Titanic.

The problem was, the Titanic was sailing to New York, not from it, so Ned and the Chinamen quickly hitched a ride on a grand blimp called the "Hindenberg 2: NO SMOKING" all the way over to England, where they were just in time to ride the Titanic back to New York.

Ned and the Titanic were like peas in a pod, and he entertained the guests and crew day and night with his inflatable pacemaker and a metal box that he claimed to contain Spain. He was voted "Best Grandmother" on the Titanic and was given a commemorative kick in the head. Unfortunately, these blissful days were not to last.

Out of nowhere the "biggest skeeter this side of the Rio Grande" latched onto the ship and started "jimmyin' open the fuselage with his tremendous skeeter-beak". Ned knew that time was short and heroism was in high demand, so he leapt into the fray with only a freakishly large Q-tip and a loincloth on his side. When all was said and done, "them skeeter" had been swabbed into submission and nine months later Ned would unexpectedly give birth to a small Laotian boy named Ring-rong, who would go to work in the diamond mines, and was years later buried under a landslide of engagement rings. Unfortunately for all aboard though, at that moment some joker pulled the plug on the Atlantic and "them Titanic" went down the drain, never to be seen again. Ned survived only by holing up in the belly of a whale named Tim, who later washed up on the shores of Costa Rica, proving his long-standing claim that he was allergic to Danes.

Over a hundred years later, the Walking Rails are still the mode of trans-continental transport preferred by most 10 year-old runaways. None of this would be possible without Nedrum Nightynight Nedmiller, and it's truly time that the city of Pasadena, California erects a gigantic knee brace in his name.

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Dear commune:

I feel you've gone too far to the extreme once again. "Gun Control" is just another liberal name for over-regulation.

Every American is shocked and stunned by the outbreak of violence in the workplace and our schools. Yet I have been labeled everything from a buffoon to a bad American for my belief that it is not gun regulation our country needs, but a stronger moral code.

Most of the gun violence committed in this country is not preventable by new laws or even enforcing those we've got. It is not bad gun owners who are causing these problems, it is those who acquire these guns through crime or taking them from rightful gun owners without their knowledge. Even in the cases where your glorified "seven day waiting period" has passed, a criminal can later steal a weapon from someone justified to carry it and commit a crime.

Safety lock legislation is another savior built up by the left as something the NRA opposes without justification; the fact is, good gun owners will have safety locks or otherwise keep their weapons out of unqualified hands. Regulating the industry to have them is ridiculous. Once again the only blame liberals like the commune can place is that on faceless companies. Regulation is not the answer, nor has it ever been. When will you learn?

Harvey Canter
Whitebury Plains, IL


Mr. Canter:

We at the commune value the freedom of speech and welcome opposing viewpoints. Though we at the commune may not share your opinion, we respect it and take every chance to print your thoughts in this section.

Thank you for your letter.

the commune

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deer
comun

I think you fart. I draw picher you fart!



rusty klein age 7


Mr. Klein age 7:

We at the commune value the freedom of speech and welcome opposing viewpoints. Though we at the commune may not share your opinion, we respect it and take every chance to print your thoughts in this section.

Thank you for your letter.

the commune

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Dear commune:

How can you say you don't like me if you've never tried me? That's not very adult of you.

For years I have helped kids grow in many ways. I'm good for building bones and muscle, I make you strong. You could use a little better than all that junk food, you know? Starving kids would be happy to have me.

Why don't you eat me?

Sincerely,
Broccoli


Broccoli:

The editorial staff dwells very hard on all decisions it makes. After reviewing the position of the commune, we have to say we stand by our previous assertion: "Broccoli? Yeecch!"

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Dear commune:

Can you do this?

Huh? Can you?

Arvid Shane
Comb, Georgia


Mr. Shane:

Do what, you asshole? What is it with you people sometimes?

the commune

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Dear Playboy Advisor:

The other day I dug my old Quadraphonic stereo out and hooked it up, but one of the subwoofers seems to have failed. This is a nightmare. I have a beautiful set up and it's a classic. I dread the thought of trying to replace it, the expense and hassle involved… is there any place I can get information on repairing an old Philips Quadraphonic speaker?

Also, what's the best way to talk my girlfriend into anal sex?

Thanks,

Mitch Lumley
Phoenix, AZ


Mr. Lumley:

We think you may have mailed your letter to the wrong location. But we would highly suggest just taking the top and bottom off and tinkering around with a screwdriver. Keep plugging away at it until it makes noise. Persistence is the key.

And sorry, we don't know anything about fixing speakers.

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Dear commune:

My friends at school are mean. They tell me that there is no Santa Claus and my daddy and mommy lie about Santa. I know there is a Santa, I just know there is. Please tell me the truth, commune… is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia Tucker

Halsbury, Pennsylvania


Dear Virginia:

Yes, Virginia, there is a Satan. He knows when you're sleeping… he knows when you've been bad or good. And soon he'll be coming to your house! Merry Christmas!

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the content of its editorials, replies, or for proofreading any statements. Neither is the commune responsible for your being overweight, repulsive, or unloved. While we're at it, we had nothing to do with Nazi occupation of Poland either.

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