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September 12, 2005 |
New Orleans, LA Junior Bacon Actor Sean Penn bravely rescues himself from the New Orleans disaster isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now.
“We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.”
The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaki...
isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now.
“We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.”
The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation.
“We had this one crazy old lady who wouldn’t leave without her million cats, so we had to drown all her cats in the back yard,” anecdotalized Pvt. Jeremy Pankin, animal lover. “I mean, that is, all her cats drown in the back yard. Yeah.”
According to officials, 95% of the people now remaining in New Orleans qualify as celebrities, with the jury still out on John Stamos and a few others. Most are reportedly taking turns rescuing each other from various perilous locations around the sunken city.
“Thassa haw nyaom flawn dawg,” drawled local plumber Cornell Hughes, possibly speaking about the celebrity situation in New Orleans. “Shaw golla farn myaw.”
Oscar-winning actor Sean Penn, 45, has drawn the most attention after arriving last week with his entourage in a boat that immediately sank, despite frantic efforts at beer-cup bailing. Reports are unclear as to whether Penn was here to help the locals, or if he was rehearsing for his role in an upcoming Woody Allen comedy.
“When you see people in trouble on TV, as a celebrity you can’t just stand idly by,” explained singer Harry Connick Jr., who like every other jazz musician, claims to be from New Orleans. “That’s why I’ve been here for the last few days, walking around and telling people I’m Harry Connick Jr.”
Other celebrities either rescued or ejected from the city by the National Guard this week include Fab Morvan, formerly of Milli Vanilli, rapper Flavor Flav, the Dixie Chicks, Leonard Nimoy, radio personality Dr. Phil, the Oak Ridge Boys, Paul Reubens, Sista Souljah, writer Stephen King, the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir, tennis pro Ivan Lendl, Sting, actor Mickey Rourke, and three members of the alt-fluff quartet the Cardigans.
R&B singer Macy Gray wisely decided to give the highly toxic and in all likelihood instantly carcinogenic city a wide berth, instead volunteering to hand out t-shirts and condoms to refugees at the Astrodome in Houston.
“You kiddin’ me?” questioned Gray when asked about her decision. “That place is like the Chernobyl Water Park. I wouldn’t even drive past that state with the windows down. I already got curly hair, you know?”
Meanwhile, Fox crews have been on hand in New Orleans all week to film a new reality show based on the celebrities’ and locals’ exciting efforts to sneak back into the watery grave that used to be their city. According to network officials, I Forgot Something! will premiere on Fox later this fall. The commune news has never been one to back down from a fight or heed good advice, which is why we intend to keep commune reporter Ivan Nacutchacokov in New Orleans for as long as Ivanly possible, no matter the cost. To him, that is, it’s not costing us anything. That reminds us, we’re not sending any more money for “expenses,” Ivan. It’s about time you learned to loot like a big boy.
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Argument over which hotties men would do turns violent
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Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 April 15, 2002
I Would Sail Seven Seas to Find You if I Had A Boat and You Were Not Already HereThis is dedicated to my wife, on the occasion of our three year anniversary. The time… where has it gone? Out of my soul and into you, through several orifices, that's where. And would I change one second of it? Not one second.
Nancy, you are the light in my bedroom early in the morning as I get out of bed for a drink of water, or perhaps to use the bathroom. You are my reason for getting out of bed in the morning, as you wake me up so I will not be late for work. You are my one, my only, my everything, even the things that you would not initially think you are. Like the dressing on my salad that adds flavor and zest to it, or the potato peeler that keeps me from having to eat skins.
When I first saw you all those years ago, when I was dating your friend, I knew we would one day be together. But I thought at the time we would be together in a sort of group thing, with your friend, my then-current girlfriend, and some person you were likewise dating. But fate twists and turns, wobbles and falls down, smashes your glass coffee table and sleeps with your sister. And you became mine, when I called you and asked you if you wanted to bring over my laundry from your friend's house for me.
But Nancy, that small errand became the first of many you would do for me. You would carry my heart on your back like it weighed nothing and bring it back to me, bringing with you hope and happiness and your beautiful smile. Though I'm sure my heart...
º Last Column: You: Tall, Gorgeous Blonde. Me: Abusive Drunken Bigot º more columns
This is dedicated to my wife, on the occasion of our three year anniversary. The time… where has it gone? Out of my soul and into you, through several orifices, that's where. And would I change one second of it? Not one second.
Nancy, you are the light in my bedroom early in the morning as I get out of bed for a drink of water, or perhaps to use the bathroom. You are my reason for getting out of bed in the morning, as you wake me up so I will not be late for work. You are my one, my only, my everything, even the things that you would not initially think you are. Like the dressing on my salad that adds flavor and zest to it, or the potato peeler that keeps me from having to eat skins.
When I first saw you all those years ago, when I was dating your friend, I knew we would one day be together. But I thought at the time we would be together in a sort of group thing, with your friend, my then-current girlfriend, and some person you were likewise dating. But fate twists and turns, wobbles and falls down, smashes your glass coffee table and sleeps with your sister. And you became mine, when I called you and asked you if you wanted to bring over my laundry from your friend's house for me.
But Nancy, that small errand became the first of many you would do for me. You would carry my heart on your back like it weighed nothing and bring it back to me, bringing with you hope and happiness and your beautiful smile. Though I'm sure my heart already was pretty heavy, it's as if you shrugged it off and said, "No, I can take it with me. Just throw it on top of the heart. Careful, don't squash it or nothing."
Nancy, you are the song in my heart. A song I never get sick of, like that "I get knocked down but I get up again" song that I at first liked and then got sick of hearing at every football game we went to. What would I do without you? It's a stupid question that you're dumb for asking, because I would not spend a day without you. I would find you anywhere, at any place—I would sail the seven seas and find you, except for the fact I do not have a boat. But it is fine because you are already here.
Where are we going, where will it all end? And how? These are questions I don't really care about.
Sometimes I picture us growing old together, a happy old couple like Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, only you have not died. Sure, your looks are gone and I look more like my dad than I ever wanted to, but we are still together and happy. Though sometimes bored. And our house is full of our children and grandchildren, because you have pampered them all their lives and they refuse to move out and take care of themselves even though they are well old enough. We have had many arguments about this, our future selves, but they are never severe and the words we say we always take back.
This is our life together—yes, one life, as in we are one person. I, Chals, and you, Nancy, we're like Chancy. One person, one mind, two differing sets of genitalia and one large closet full of man and woman clothes. Our independent thought processes buried under the will of our new two-person collective. I refuse to let you go even if you would scream to be released, I would rather be dead. And you feel the same way for me.
So if you're reading this, Nancy, please come back. My friends have moved out of the garage and will not be back, I promise. I miss you. My one, my only, my everything. º Last Column: You: Tall, Gorgeous Blonde. Me: Abusive Drunken Bigotº more columns
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|  March 12, 2007
Swing-to-the-Left Voters Can Eat MeAs one of two conservatives in the commune office, the other being a complete asshole, I felt quite alone watching the election coverage back in November. It was like the 1994 election, only horribly inverted—Democrats, Democrats everywhere, and not a successful attack ad in sight. Piss on the current administration, I say. Not because I'm not a loyal Republican, but because I firmly believe if the president had kicked a little pay-off action to the voters again (we call it tax relief) he could have skated all his cronies back into office with ease. "Iraq-a-what?" millions of greedy undecideds would have said, dollar signs clicking comically in their eyes. I love it in cartoons when you can see dollar signs rolling in someone's eyes—it wish everybody was that honest in real life.
But no, goddammit, he put his faith in the conservative religious base once again, and trusted his purges of minority voters in key states would do what he needed. Well, that left a lot of your guys shit out of luck, Mr. President. We're all financially fucked now. And don't expect the healthy sense of fear and respect we've been getting from enemy nations, now that the cursed undecideds have lame-duckified both the president and congress. Old Glory (yes, you capitalize it, goddamn you) has become a welcome mat we can roll out to terrorists, dictators, fascists, welfare moms, pervert artists, and other enemies of the great republic.
I still remember watching it on the TV,...
º Last Column: The New War on Poverty º more columns
As one of two conservatives in the commune office, the other being a complete asshole, I felt quite alone watching the election coverage back in November. It was like the 1994 election, only horribly inverted—Democrats, Democrats everywhere, and not a successful attack ad in sight. Piss on the current administration, I say. Not because I'm not a loyal Republican, but because I firmly believe if the president had kicked a little pay-off action to the voters again (we call it tax relief) he could have skated all his cronies back into office with ease. "Iraq-a-what?" millions of greedy undecideds would have said, dollar signs clicking comically in their eyes. I love it in cartoons when you can see dollar signs rolling in someone's eyes—it wish everybody was that honest in real life. But no, goddammit, he put his faith in the conservative religious base once again, and trusted his purges of minority voters in key states would do what he needed. Well, that left a lot of your guys shit out of luck, Mr. President. We're all financially fucked now. And don't expect the healthy sense of fear and respect we've been getting from enemy nations, now that the cursed undecideds have lame-duckified both the president and congress. Old Glory (yes, you capitalize it, goddamn you) has become a welcome mat we can roll out to terrorists, dictators, fascists, welfare moms, pervert artists, and other enemies of the great republic. I still remember watching it on the TV, knowing it was coming 'cause all the polls pointed to disaster. As usual, I was here in the commune office, conveniently located where I sleep and eat chicken wings. I remember having most of the year off, for whatever reason—I'm only the Office Manager, work stoppages aren't any of my business. All I know is we hadn't been publishing since April or something and a lot of the reporters had taken off for long vacations, which meant I could crank up the Creedence. It was better than hearing the news folks actually covering the elections proselytizing about "wake up calls" and "referendums on the war." It's not a war, idiots, it's an occupation—at least get that part right. A war is when both sides agree they're fighting, and we clearly haven't gotten on board that wagon yet. Regardless of semantics, forgetting who voted for what and why, we all have to thank the Undecideds. Yeah, they get the capitalization treatment now, too, 'cause they're a group—the same group that keeps fucking things up for everybody. At last the Democrats and the Republicans can find common ground together, a mutual enemy. These la-dee-dahs and their lack of conviction. How could anyone over the age of 10 and under the age of 90 not know what the hell they stand for, and which political group makes the weak promises to give them just that? How could complete morons, who predictably somehow make it out to the polls on election days, not pick one big fat emotional issue and react with gusto on that? Going right into the congressional elections of 2006, just like 2004, 2002, 2000, and every election in-between, before, and to come, these numb-nutted weasels had every reason to believe they knew there was a big military presence in Iraq, there was a major SNAFU with the future of social security, and they either had a good job or no job whatsoever. Did these guys wake up bankrupt, old, concerned with immigration and terrified about the environment on Tuesday morning? You assholes had plenty of time to register with a party or at least warn either party of your voting intentions. But no, you had to leave it to the last minute to make a commitment toward the party you want to let you down for the next 2-6 years. If we had known, maybe we could have kissed a little more Christian ass before that fatal Tuesday. Promised to make fireproof flags or give an abortion doctor a death penalty or something. Thanks for nothing, losers. º Last Column: The New War on Povertyº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Yes, madam, I may be drunk, but you are ugly and in the morning I shall still be drunk! Wait a minute… Okay, I've got a match for you: your butt and my face. TouchĂ©.”
-Quentin HillchurchFortune 500 CookieHappiness is indeed a warm gun, but you're not supposed to warm it in your ass like that. If your life is lacking direction this week, we've got one word for you: North. As you have long suspected, recreational drugs are the answer. This week's lucky charms: taupe meatballs, turquoise speculums, puce gallstones, gold bullets.
Try again later.More Top Rejected Muppets| 1. | Groper | | 2. | Andy Cass | | 3. | Rat Bastard | | 4. | Fart Carney | | 5. | The Turkish Prison Guard | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Richard Stooter 3/7/2005 Motherfucker GooseThere was an old woman who
lived in a shoe
she had so many children
she didn't even have to work
I had to support them all
because she's a liar
Old Mother Hubbard
went to the cupboard
to get her poor dog a bone
I porked the old crow
but don't let my friends know
it was, like, 4 a.m.
and I hadn't been lucky all night
As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives
it's my friend, Gary, ol' G-Dawg
I'm not sure whose wives they all were
Little Bo Peep
has lost her sheep
so she smacks his ass
with her gigantic staff
until he learns his lesson
or the hour he paid for is up
the costume costs extra
Wee Willy...
There was an old woman who
lived in a shoe
she had so many children
she didn't even have to work
I had to support them all
because she's a liar
Old Mother Hubbard
went to the cupboard
to get her poor dog a bone
I porked the old crow
but don't let my friends know
it was, like, 4 a.m.
and I hadn't been lucky all night
As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives
it's my friend, Gary, ol' G-Dawg
I'm not sure whose wives they all were
Little Bo Peep
has lost her sheep
so she smacks his ass
with her gigantic staff
until he learns his lesson
or the hour he paid for is up
the costume costs extra
Wee Willy Winky
shut-up, bitch, the hot tub was cold
There was a young guy named Dick
whose psychiatrist said he was sick
he suffers from permanent
arrested development
because his mother domineered
and his dad was quite queer
but at least he got a few poems out of all of it   |