| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0328/';
$dunkintitle='Highway to Hell';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0822/';
$fingertitle='To Hell With This Desk';
$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='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$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='2005/0704/';
$police='2005/0822/';
$polio='2005/0822/';
$poliotitle='WEASELS-B-GON';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds';
$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';
?> | 
Colin Powell An Ass ManMarch 18, 2002 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans Oh, yeah, Secretary of State likey
"Sure enough," Powell said, addressing a room full of inquisitive teen-agers and fine ladies, "I am, always have been, and always will be a connoisseur of sweet asses."
"Don't get me wrong," Powell continued, "I love every part of a tasty young lady—and I do mean every part. But if you nailed me down, oh, I don't know, say held a gun to my hand and demanded to know… it's true, folks. I'm a rear admiral."
Previous statements from sources close to the Secretary of State have suggested he loves big and bouncy titties, ...
.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell answered an M-TV audience's question on the show Be Heard: An M-TV Global Discussion With Colin Powell that, despite contradictory claims by friends and gossipers, he is indeed an ass man.
"Sure enough," Powell said, addressing a room full of inquisitive teen-agers and fine ladies, "I am, always have been, and always will be a connoisseur of sweet asses."
"Don't get me wrong," Powell continued, "I love every part of a tasty young lady—and I do mean every part. But if you nailed me down, oh, I don't know, say held a gun to my hand and demanded to know… it's true, folks. I'm a rear admiral."
Previous statements from sources close to the Secretary of State have suggested he loves big and bouncy titties, the bigger the better. One close friend, female, assured the press Powell was a legman, and couldn't resist a sweet mama with a long pair of "sex handles."
"Again, nothing wrong with a nice pair up there or down there," Powell said with a sly grin, running his hands sensuously against the podium, "but you all have me wrong. I'm into hip fox with a loose caboose."
As if proving his statement, as he exited the press room, Powell stopped and craned his neck trying to catch a glimpse of a female M-TV intern with a fully-loaded trunk on the way up the press aisle. "Mmm-mmm-MMM!" Powell grunted under his breath, shaking his head to escape the vision and exiting quietly. the commune news is presented in anamorphic widescreen to preserve its original theatrical aspect ratio of 2.35:1. Lil Duncan is the commune's Washington correspondent and therefore gets a parking space close to the building while hard-working tiny-type writers have to hoof it in from two blocks away.
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Netflix Raises Rates 60%, Finally Adds Mama's Family Streaming
 Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television
Tsunami relief concert-goers thoughtlessly do "the wave"
Internet blogs bring self-obsessed whiners right into your living room
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Chief Justice Rehnquist: Dead as Disco at 80 he world sighed a mournful “Oh” upon hearing of the death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who led the U.S. Supreme Court for 19 years and formed the holy conservative trinity of the court. Rehnquist is the second justice to retire from the Supreme Court this year, and never to be outdone, Rehnquist chose the more dramatic exit method of death in office.
The Chief Justice announced his diagnosis of thyroid cancer last year and his refusal to retire from the Supreme Court, angering liberals and conservatives alike by his reluctance to make the playing field more interesting. Never one to quit, Rehnquist had suffered greatly in recent months from radiation for his cancer treatment and a tracheotomy, actually performed by an over-anxious boyscout on a visit to the nation’s capitol. Kansas City Royals Win Little League World Series n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title. Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact. “Willie gave it a hell of an effort,” praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.” Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents” |
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 May 26, 2003
Little Deuce CoupTo those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.
So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.
It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing...
º Last Column: The President Needs a Wingman
º more columns
To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.
So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.
It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing grainy home-video footage of a mysterious figure striding across a street in some unnamed US city. Nobody wanted to say anything while I was in the room, but it was obvious everyone knew what this was.
Red Bagel. Alive.
It was then that I began to feel my igloo of lies collapsing in around me. Sure, I'll admit it, I'd been telling the staff Bagel died within a month of his disappearance, in a gas station bathroom during a botched abortion attempt. It was the only way I could demand the respect and obedience of the staff, get them to stop calling me "dickface" and end the childish outbursts of "You're not my real editor! I'll stay up as late as I want!" all the time. And now my roosters had come home to roost. Proof of Bagel's survival, writ large on the small screen.
Leave it to the commune staff to get all up in my head with mind games, like pretending there hasn't been a coup at all. That the coffee has always been this bad and that the staff was just watching Signs last week, the creature seen waltzing across the street on TV just some bugged-out space alien from the film. Nice try, commune staff. But anyone who's sat a mile in Red Bagel's office chair knows that he would never risk techno-viral infection by setting foot on a Hollywood movie set. Hurley: 1, Coupers: 0.
Besides, I've seen the effigy of my likeness they had strung up in the office last week, and I don't buy the claims that it was just a piñata. I know a piñata when I see one, and that thing was clearly a jackass, an obvious reference to the staff's term of endearment for me, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley.
So let's drop the charade and bring the noise, commune staff. I'm stocked to weather this storm. And I'll be here waiting to accept your unconditional surrender once you realize the hopelessness of your situation, on one condition: That you bring pizza, beer and toilet paper with you. And don't forget the TP. º Last Column: The President Needs a Wingmanº more columns
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|  December 23, 2002
Volume 32Dear commune:
I'm always fascinated by cultures different from our own. It's nice to know that some things are universal—like smiles. Everyone smiles, in every place on the earth! Isn't that cool?
Another thing is Santa Claus. Sure, we don't call him by the same name everywhere, but everyone believes in some version of Santa Claus, right? Which is why I'm writing to you. Can you tell me more about all the various versions of Santa Claus out there? It sounds exciting! Thanks!
Nat McCauley
Whitewash, Washington
Dear Nat:
Judging by the fact your letter's written in crayon you're either a child or mentally handicapped, or just a full-grown man who makes very poor shopping choices. Either way, we think it best not to feed your delusions about "Santa Claus."
It is so typical of Clausians to assume everybody everywhere believes in Santa Claus and the power of his gift-giving. If you are a child, we cannot blame you, but it's time you knew that Santa Claus is only one theory of how the gifts get under the tree, and not even the oldest.
In some African cultures, popular theory is that Black Monday, a large death-dealing African tribesman with a sackful of gifts, sneaks in through the chimney (or under the door, if your home doesn't have a chimney) in the night, unsheathes a machete and deals death to the wicked white families. Their possessions are reclaimed and distributed to...
º Last Column: Volume 31
º more columns
Dear commune: I'm always fascinated by cultures different from our own. It's nice to know that some things are universal—like smiles. Everyone smiles, in every place on the earth! Isn't that cool? Another thing is Santa Claus. Sure, we don't call him by the same name everywhere, but everyone believes in some version of Santa Claus, right? Which is why I'm writing to you. Can you tell me more about all the various versions of Santa Claus out there? It sounds exciting! Thanks! Nat McCauley
Whitewash, WashingtonDear Nat:
Judging by the fact your letter's written in crayon you're either a child or mentally handicapped, or just a full-grown man who makes very poor shopping choices. Either way, we think it best not to feed your delusions about "Santa Claus."
It is so typical of Clausians to assume everybody everywhere believes in Santa Claus and the power of his gift-giving. If you are a child, we cannot blame you, but it's time you knew that Santa Claus is only one theory of how the gifts get under the tree, and not even the oldest.
In some African cultures, popular theory is that Black Monday, a large death-dealing African tribesman with a sackful of gifts, sneaks in through the chimney (or under the door, if your home doesn't have a chimney) in the night, unsheathes a machete and deals death to the wicked white families. Their possessions are reclaimed and distributed to the African people, and that's how the gifts get under the tree.
In Japan, "Santa" is actually a 50-foot robot that transforms into a walkman and leaves itself under the tree. Fortunately, once one robot has completed its mission, other robots construct themselves for delivery to other children around the world.
As for ourselves, sometimes we're Santagnostics and don't know what we believe. But usually we rely on the idea that "Santa Claus," as you call him, is just pure energy that divides itself among us all, and that by closing our eyes and collectively picturing sugar plums dancing and other Christmas things, we can generate gifts under the tree without buying them. This hasn't happened yet, but it's usually from a lack of good will and Christmas cheer and therefore does not constitute a lack of existence of this energy.
Hope this has illuminated the subject and you're no longer tied to the ridiculous idea of a man coming down your chimney to empty his sack rather than fill it. Merry whatever!
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the lump of coal in your stocking. Perhaps you should have thought about that before sending us all those forwarded e-mails asking us to add our names to the bottom.º Last Column: Volume 31º more columns
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Milestones1983: Red Bagel is thrown out of a casino for counting cards. He is not cheating, merely trying to settle a bet with a friend on how many decks the casino uses.Now HiringJames Bondian Action Hero. Must be proficient in fire arms and small mechanical gadgets with ridiculous capabilities. Responsibilities include killing unnamed lackeys and doing battle with bizarre supervillians of non-distinct European origin. Good benefits, adventure, and pussy galore. Top Ways to Kill Chickens| 1. | Pop Rocks & Coke | | 2. | Confuse to Death | | 3. | Country Music Depression Suicide | | 4. | Foreign War | | 5. | PETA Lecture | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 2/14/2005 A Time for DeadHis pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers.
"Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself...
His pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers. "Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself to be the exception. He would admit to friends, if he'd had any, that this was an unusual mission. He thought he'd seen it all during his eight year tenure as a highly in-demand rogue double agent, and one so skilled he'd been able to skip the normal single agent phase entirely, shooting straight into the big time of espionage. But he'd never been asked to shoot a deer before. At first he thought it must be a typo, written with a finger in the dust on his car's passenger side window, the way he always received his top secret missions. He'd figured Deer must be the last name of some deadly ex-KGB killing machine proficient in seventeen languages and Russo-karate. But over his customary eighteen months of research and preparation, Chowheim realized how wrong he had been. This was no ordinary deer. This deer had vital information about nukes in the former Eskimo stronghold of Newfoundland, Canada. A mole deer, a triple agent. A triple agent was the most impressive and complicated thing a spy could be, man or beast, since anyone who attempted to make the leap to quadruple agent invariably got confused and ended up just becoming the regular plain vanilla agent they were pretending to be during the course of their subterfuge times four. When Chowheim thought about it, he realized how perfect the plan had been. Nobody ever expects a deer. National reaction to the Disney film Bambi had been overwhelmingly positive ever since it opened on 1,517 screens in 1942. Entire generations of Americans were ripe for this con. And with a deer's average lifespan of 17.4 years in the Northern hemisphere, there was plenty of time for ample training and invaluable field experience before the serious missions began. Plus, he'd heard deer could run pretty fast. Always a handy trick to have up one's triple-agenting sleeve when in a pinch. Chowheim calibrated his sights again to compensate for the warming early-morning air. It was an odd place to expect a deer, a busy Manhattan street on a Tuesday morning, but double agents thrive on expecting the unexpected, and triple agents thrive on hiding in plain sight. This deer was good. Then he appeared. Casually, by a newspaper stand. Chowheim aimed for the pulmonary aortal junction, the surest kill spot for a male buck deer without rolling the dice on a dicey skull shot. Remembering his months spent in veterinary school and the additional weeks he spent wearing a deer suit in the wild, Chowheim aimed just below the junction, allowing gravity to do some of the bleeding work for him. It was no use taking his chances creating a geyser of deer blood squirting up into the air, which some passing Good Samaritan might catch in a bucket and use to save the rogue deer's life. Chowheim squeezed off a silent round without needing to look, and quickly broke down his rifle. After changing his clothes, facial hair and blood type on his way down the stairwell, Chowheim made a point of weaving into the crowd gathering around the ex-triple agent deer's now-lifeless body. Market research had shown that the last person anyone suspects is the guy with the handlebar mustache walking towards the action. Chowheim cast a quick glance streetward to admire his handiwork as he passed, then froze in his tracks like a glacier hitting a landmine. Something wasn't right. Something very wasn't right. Just then Chowheim realized he'd shot a dog. Not even a particularly deer-like dog, either, it was a French poodle. Shit, Chowheim thought. Then he thought shit again. After a quick calculation of odds, counter-odds, and evens in his head, he realized it was time for Plan D. Quadruple-agency, here he came. For more of this great story, buy Turner Volst's
A Time for Dead   |
