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 May 2, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans the commune apologizes on behalf of Ansel Evans for this extremely bizarre photo, which the photographer claims captures the “essence” of the story in a way we could never understand
“Gotcha, stoners!” celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.
“This is a great day for Tootie,” slurred c...
aw enforcement officials are bursting with pride this week over the results of the first annual Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, an unqualified success that nabbed over 3 million drug users at their places of employment nationwide. The controversial sting operation, brainchild of DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed, snared millions of Americans who thought the “holiday” was a long-overdue relaxing of uptight social mores and restrictions about showing up to work as high as a beautiful kite.
“Gotcha, stoners!” celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.
“This is a great day for Tootie,” slurred commune editor Red Bagel in agreement, drunk as an ox, upon hearing the news.
Wishing to capitalize on the success of this week’s traditional Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, federal officials granted the DEA’s wish by quietly passing the new holiday into law, clamped onto the ass of the innocuous “Puppies are Beautiful” bill passed by congress in February.
However, several women’s groups have already protested BYDWD, concerned that the bummer drug-bust holiday will taint the public’s associations with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, most notable among them the feminist groups NORML Chicks and Women for Reggae. The original, non-Fugazi holiday was instituted in 1993 as a way for parents to expose their daughters to the dangers of the workplace and to drain office productivity for the month of April.
Since then, several painfully politically-correct groups have lobbied to change the name of Bring Your Daughter to Work Day to the less-offensive Bring Your Daughter or Son or Whatever You’ve Got to Work or Some Place Else if You’re Unemployed Day, with little success due to counter-lobbying efforts from calendar manufacturers, who claim that printing a holiday name that long would force them to retool their entire operations at incredible expense.
Others have argued the highly controversial point that there’s nothing wrong with drug use in the workplace, unless it adversely affects job-related performance.
“Man, this is total bullshit waaaaaaaaaa…” trailed off temp worker Justin Penrose from a holding cell outside Chicago.
Still others, however, have pointed out that anyone who was dumb enough to fall for Bring Your Drugs to Work Day has obviously had their mental faculties dimmed heavily by drug residue of some sort, and is likely costing their employer billions in lost productivity and time spent having to explain things six or seven times.
“God I feel stupid,” lamented 79-year old Eloise Hartford, who misunderstood the nature of the holiday and brought her extensive collection of prescription medications to work on Monday instead. Most of Eloise’s co-workers were arrested for marijuana possession, leaving the lion’s share of the 14-person office’s tasks on the frail shoulders of Hartford, who tires easily.
“I should have claimed some of that reefer was mine,” complained Hartford. “I hear they have some pretty soft cots in prison these days. No beds of nails or anything anymore.”
In related news, commune editor’s-brother Gay Bagel has recently spearheaded an aggressive initiative to increase Internet access to inmates in America’s prisons, a move some have called a ratings ploy since a large proportion of the commune readership is now behind bars. the commune news is proud to announce that we for one(s) did not fall for the Bring Your Drugs to Work Day ploy, though that point was largely moot since commune columnist Omar Bricks misunderstood the nature of the holiday and took it as an opportunity to spike the building water supply with LSD, leading to a unicorn-chasing incident the commune news would rather not recount in detail. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown was the only commune staffer not affected by the dosing, and not coincidentally the only reporter who could be trusted to deliver this story without mention of faeries, moon cats or psychedelic caterpillars.
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Lawyers for Gitmo Detainees Lobby to Stop Calling Them “Gitmo” Detainees Fans Mourn First 30 Years of Puckett’s Life Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” R.C. Car Enthusiasts Angered by Latest Mars Mission Snub |
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 May 15, 2001
Some People Call Me the Space CowboyGood people, the most wondrous of wonderful, funderful, magical things has happened to me! I was hit in the side by a dirty van while crossing the street and gravely injured. That's not the good part, but I'm getting to that—let's take the long way, shall we?
Of course, you may know that we at the commune traded our insurance benefits options for Red Bagel's home-built soap box derby cars, so the shattered bones in my pelvis, my broken arm, multiple lacerations, bruised face, and bent pinky toe couldn't seek professional care. It turns out the man who hit me with his filthy van had no insurance either, but he's making it up to me in another way—again, more later. I did the only thing I could do, seek out an Indian friend to nurse me back to health, ala the legend of the Lone Ranger. So I asked Batu, a guy who works in the commune building on a different floor, to help me, and he agreed, even though he said he's an East Indian not a Native American, which I could give two cents about. Batu loaned me his Canadian Prescriptions card for all the free Vicodin I could ever want and his home body cast kit. Needless to say, I'm doing much better now, still some internal bleeding, but that may have been there before. Let's get on to the van-smashing wonderful thing.
The man with the van is Dan Lopez, or "Space Dan" to his friends, a legion amongst which I now count myself. And they call him Space Dan for a very sound reason, not simply because he's...
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Good people, the most wondrous of wonderful, funderful, magical things has happened to me! I was hit in the side by a dirty van while crossing the street and gravely injured. That's not the good part, but I'm getting to that—let's take the long way, shall we? Of course, you may know that we at the commune traded our insurance benefits options for Red Bagel's home-built soap box derby cars, so the shattered bones in my pelvis, my broken arm, multiple lacerations, bruised face, and bent pinky toe couldn't seek professional care. It turns out the man who hit me with his filthy van had no insurance either, but he's making it up to me in another way—again, more later. I did the only thing I could do, seek out an Indian friend to nurse me back to health, ala the legend of the Lone Ranger. So I asked Batu, a guy who works in the commune building on a different floor, to help me, and he agreed, even though he said he's an East Indian not a Native American, which I could give two cents about. Batu loaned me his Canadian Prescriptions card for all the free Vicodin I could ever want and his home body cast kit. Needless to say, I'm doing much better now, still some internal bleeding, but that may have been there before. Let's get on to the van-smashing wonderful thing. The man with the van is Dan Lopez, or "Space Dan" to his friends, a legion amongst which I now count myself. And they call him Space Dan for a very sound reason, not simply because he's frequently stoned out of his gourd, although that's why some of his lesser friends think they call him that. No, the fact is, my friends, Space Dan is building himself an actual rocketship. You didn't read me wrong—an actual rocketship. Space Dan has circumvented the bloated government beast and the bureaucratic red-tape nonsense and created his own private company for space exploration. I profess I was a little skeptical myself when I heard, but when I drove to his home in Littleton, a neighboring community of freaks and weirdoes to Flatbush, New Jersey, I saw quite the impressive sign hanging over his garage. He dissuaded me from seeing his state-of-the-art rocketship within, not because he didn't trust me, but the main stockholders in Space Dan's Rocket Travel Ltd.—Mom and Dad Lopez—refused to let him show anyone due to the possibility of industrial espionage. I can understand that completely, ever since I got blitzed on Southern Comfort that one night last February and offered to sell Crotchet! Magazine all of the commune's trade secrets. Lucky for us they weren't interested in buying. Oh, in my excitement, I haven't even told you the best part—I myself am going into space, and I'm going there for a price that's practically nothing! $350, a price which my wife describes as practically insane, but she's got a mouth on her that, that one. I have been given that special price because of my great injuries sustained when he hit me—and he wasn't drunk, he was just trying to grab some candy bars from the back of the van when I was struck, so he technically wasn't even at the wheel. Space Dan waived the greater fees of space gas, gantry-fixin', reupholstering the space vehicle, and the comeback fee. All that was left was the $350 local space license, which of course he couldn't do anything about. It's a price I'll gladly pay, as soon as my wife goes to sleep later this evening and leaves her purse unguarded. Just think—as soon as I'm fully recovered from my crippling injuries, I, Rok Finger, will be blasted into the cosmos by a professional private sector space-faring company. It's a dream I've had since I was a small child, but hopefully everyone at Mission Control won't be talking chipmunks. Come to think of it, what was that dream about? Maybe I'll be hit by an analyst next week and can get that worked out for free, too. º Last Column: I Can't Get Upº more columns
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|  July 21, 2003
Whistler's MotherfuckerYou know what really pisses me off? People who can't whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn't even that enjoyable when it's good. Even if you're stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, the Grand Dragon or whatever they call the dude who wins the World Whistling Championships down in Arkansas or wherever they have that crap, next door to the freaks who can play banjo like some inbred Jimi Hendrix, even if it's THAT dude and he can whistle like God himself farting out a melody, he's still probably gonna be whistling some song you don't like. In fact, that's a pretty safe bet since it's rare that somebody whistles any song you actually want to hear, anything hardass like "Ironman," instead it's usually the Andy Griffith theme or "Butterfly Kisses" or some gay bullshit like that.
According to commune answerman and office Sorry champion Griswald Dreck, whistling was invented by the Nazis in WWII as a way of drawing Allied snipers out of their hiding places. The German soldiers who were pinned down would whistle "Oye Como Va" and other annoying German songs off-key for days on end until the sniper finally went batshit and came charging out, yelling like "Alright fuckwad! Who wants to get bitchslapped all the way back to Hamburg?" If the Nazis spoke English at all, a hilarious fistfight would ensue since the Germans only knew Nazi karate, and that just involved stepping really high and...
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You know what really pisses me off? People who can't whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn't even that enjoyable when it's good. Even if you're stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, the Grand Dragon or whatever they call the dude who wins the World Whistling Championships down in Arkansas or wherever they have that crap, next door to the freaks who can play banjo like some inbred Jimi Hendrix, even if it's THAT dude and he can whistle like God himself farting out a melody, he's still probably gonna be whistling some song you don't like. In fact, that's a pretty safe bet since it's rare that somebody whistles any song you actually want to hear, anything hardass like "Ironman," instead it's usually the Andy Griffith theme or "Butterfly Kisses" or some gay bullshit like that.
According to commune answerman and office Sorry champion Griswald Dreck, whistling was invented by the Nazis in WWII as a way of drawing Allied snipers out of their hiding places. The German soldiers who were pinned down would whistle "Oye Como Va" and other annoying German songs off-key for days on end until the sniper finally went batshit and came charging out, yelling like "Alright fuckwad! Who wants to get bitchslapped all the way back to Hamburg?" If the Nazis spoke English at all, a hilarious fistfight would ensue since the Germans only knew Nazi karate, and that just involved stepping really high and heil-Hitlering to block everything until you either got your ass kicked or the other guy fell down laughing. If the German soldiers didn't speak any English, then they'd just shoot the guy.
Disgruntled American vets who didn't get the promised pot to piss in and cherry Mustang in every garage upon returning home from the war brought whistling back with them as a subtle revenge, and before long it spread like an embarrassing nickname all across the country. They even changed the name of the thing from a "Nazi face blow" to the less disgusting term "whistling" to make it more marketable, and soon happy assholes everywhere were whistling away, without even knowing they were giving Adolph Hitler a hard-on in his grave.
Some shit happened in the intervening years, bottom line is eventually whistling spread to my neighbor Dale, which is the worst thing that could have happened. This goddamned guy whistles day and night, and when it's hot I can't even close my windows or spray him with a fire extinguisher and blame it on the weather. Remember that Stradivarius whistler I was talking about earlier? Dale's what it would be like if that guy got kicked in the head by a moose and still thought he could whistle great but actually sucked a giant dick.
The other day I was sitting at home, trying to explain to Osaka why it would be great if she bought a rickshaw to pull me around in (solving both my transportation and never-been-pulled-around-in-a-rickshaw problems in one brilliant move) when my train of thought was totally cocked in the ass by that tone-deaf Sinatra in his back yard, whistling the theme to Simon & Simon while he turtle-waxed his patio chairs. I think it was the Simon & Simon theme, but to be honest he tends to medley shit together and none of it is right anyway so I can never be sure what specifically I'm pissed about. Could've been "Save the Best for Last," but I guess I still give the dick more credit than that.
So my concentration is shot, and one of the all-time great convincing arguments is lost to the sands of time. Talk about an extra-large crock. Enough is enough, and it's time to go on the offensive. It was one thing that Dale insists on calling me "O.B." even though that's just a tampon joke waiting to happen. Now he was messing with my bidness, as the badasses in the movies like to say when they're black badasses.
I'm thinking of having my bathroom wall replaced with Plexiglas so every time Dale looks out his window he gets an eyeful of Omar Bricks' bathroom business. I'm not sure if watching your neighbor take his morning shit is on par with having to put up with some moron whistling ABBA all the time, but hanging a B.A. out the bathroom window every now and again clearly isn't getting the message across. And nothing sounds better in a memorial service than a story about the time you scared a neighbor into an early grave by pressing ham on your Plexiglas bathroom wall one morning in July.
If that doesn't work, I'm sure I can pay some neighborhood kids to shoot some of those insanely loud whistling fireworks in the dude's bedroom window while he's sleeping. That's the kind of experience that can change a man. Not that you heard that from me, when it happens remember I was speaking hypothetically. Bricks out. º Last Column: Even Better Than the Reality Thingº more columns
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Milestones2001: Red Bagel foolishly promises paid vacations next year, only to be later surprised the commune still in business at that time.Now HiringRoadie. Duties include setting up mics, antagonizing audience hours before band comes on, picking up busty ladies of legal age for private band business. No pay, work for throwaway ladies.Top Excuses for Ugly Hat| 1. | Gift from Mom | | 2. | Draws Attention Away From Big Fat Ass | | 3. | Chicks Dig It | | 4. | Hides Goiter | | 5. | 2 for 1 Ugly Hat Sale | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/27/2002 Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to...
Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to find out:
In Theaters
Bad Company
I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw Steven Seagal ass-kicking his way through the hallways at Enron, but I was still surprised at how fast they turned this one out. They must have these scripts sitting around in Mad-lib form somewhere.
The Bourne Dentist
Matt Damon is Richard Bourne, a man who was born (get it?) to scrape plaque off of molars, but highly secretive government agents are out to stop him for reasons that only the screenwriter understands. Pretty good as far as dentist-thrillers go, and I liked Damon's Bond-like use of dental apparatus to get him out of tight jams. Kind of like Bond himself in It's Never Too Late to Die and Fancypants. The best thing about the movie, however, was the fact that they vetoed the original title at the last minute: Rinse, Spit or Die. Hallelujah. That would have been the worst title since James Bond in… Overkill.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Talk about some divine Ya-Yas. This would qualify as must-see TV if it were on television and television showed knockers. Yeah.
Enough
Those Hollywood big-shots were apparently as fed up with all of this Jennifer Lopez bullshit as you and me, so they finally decided to lay the franchise to rest with one gonzo exploding-building, axe-in-the-skull, flaming-motor-home "the bitch ain't comin' back" finale. Very satisfying for those of us who thought they should have killed her off after The Wedding Planter.
Harvard Man
Sarah Michelle Gellar, the curvy bass player for heavy-metal sloths Slayer, dons the press-on mustache for some cross-dressing Just One of the Guys mayhem at America's favorite party school. Probably the best metal band date movie since Ministry's Sorority Girls.
The Importance of Being Ernest
Hell yeah. It's about time Hollywood laugh machine Ernest P. Worrel returned to the big screen, I was beginning to think he'd died or something. Some might argue that all of Ernest's movies are the same, and on the surface that may appear to be true. Boy meets girl, boy drops girl into a vat of raw sewage, boy falls off ladder and boy saves a bunch of little kids from some kind of snot-covered goblin.
But it's in the subtle undertones that the differences are found, and this soul-searching epic about a septic-tank scrubber who is mistaken for the president is clearly Ernest's strongest work to date.
Insomnia
Can't sleep? Then maybe you should move to Alaska or Norweg or some place like that. I hear it never gets dark there, so you can stay up all night cleaning your gun or whatever they do up there all night. Maybe watching polar bears tear into the soda machines, something. I'm not sure, I fell asleep during the movie.
Scooby, Don't!
Everyone's favorite cartoon leg-humping machine is back in his big-screen debut. Unless you've ever watched the cartoon on one of those huge projection televisions, that's admittedly a pretty big screen right there. But for the rest of us with shitty 10" Sanyo TV/VCR combos, this is our first chance to see Scooby humping the president's leg all larger than lifelike.
Spirit: Stallion of the Cinnamon
I almost choked on a licorice whip when I saw the trailer for this one. Could this be for real? I thought horse pictures died with The Black Stallion and Return of the Bride of the Black Stallion 2. And not only was this a horse picture, but an ANIMATED horse picture to boot. And not only an animated horse picture, but an animated horse picture with a name that sounded like the title of a Jewel song. Holy shit! This could be worse than Glitter! Thankfully for everyone implicated in the credits, this turned out to be another great Mel Brooks spoof, with a clever red salmon of a trailer that should trick more than a few ten year-old girls into paying to see a movie about debutants having sex with horses.
The Sumbitch on All Fours
Ben Affleck takes a turn for the wolf in this poorly-timed "Werewolf in the South" picture. Believe me, I'm as excited as the next guy about the prospect of seeing some nutfuck werewolf with poofed-up hair taking a bite out of some saggy good-old-boy behind, but in the current national climate, are we really ready to laugh about bloodthirsty man-wolves again? As Teen Wolf, Too, Wolf, and Airwolf all proved, a novel spin isn't always enough to keep the public coming back for more man-dog mayhem. Having Ben Affleck being torn from ass to appetite by berzerk werewolves, now that's an idea that could have drawn a crowd. Or perhaps a movie about the same.
Undercover Brother
If you've ever told a younger sibling so many monster stories that they were afraid to come out from under the covers at night, then snuck under their covers while they were sleeping, farted, and then left, this is the movie for you. You know who you are.
Windtalkers
Though some may lament the trend, with more and more movies being packed with fart jokes these days it was all but inevitable that someone would eventually make a movie that was all fart jokes. And who better to do it than John Woo, director of such foreign fart classics as Con Air and Hard Boiled Eggs? The film starts out by showing the members of the Windtalker family coming to grips with their exceptional flatulent skills in a hilarious montage. Carl Windtalker's accidental ass-blasted recital of Sweet Child O' Mine at a baseball game will separate the snobs from the slobs in the audience, but if you make the cut you should have a good time. It's hard not to smile at the family's internal communication through a rudimentary language of intestinal blurts, and uncle Frank's scented Moose call will delight audiences, though it may scare children under the age of four. Coincidentally, some guy sitting in front of me added to the realism by cutting one loose during the film, making for a full sensory movie experience. I'll never eat Jujubees again, but I can't say that it didn't add to the film. I'm a little worried about Taco Bell's plans for a Windtaco tie-in, since I don't want to be caught in one of those places the first time somebody needs to make a run for the border after downing a sack full of those things.
That's it for now, folks. Tune your browsers this way in a month's time to take a gander at the other half of the skinny on what'll be crawling up your local theater's ass and dying this summer. Until then, this has been Entertainment Police, and you've been reading.   |
