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 October 24, 2005 |
Washington D.C. Whit Pistol New Hampshire Senator Judd Gregg, Powerball winner, decided to give an impromptu speech on the way home from filming an Old Navy commercial for extra spending cash.
"It's about friggin' time I got some good luck," Gregg told reporters in front of his home in his home state of New Hampshire. Gregg waved his winning ticket in the air frantically and laughed. "Eat it, taxpayers! I'm gonna be my own boss from now on!"
Gregg, who chairs the Senate Budget Committee and spent more than $2 million in his last re-election campaign, did admit to some sour grapes in not winning the $340 million jackpot won by an Oregon player in the same lottery.
"I wouldn't hav...
epublican Senator Judd Gregg finally ran into a big steaming pile of luck Wednesday when he matched 5 of 6 Powerball numbers and won a lottery jackpot of $853,492. Gregg immediately called Vice-President Dick Cheney to let his boss know he would not be coming into work. "It's about friggin' time I got some good luck," Gregg told reporters in front of his home in his home state of New Hampshire. Gregg waved his winning ticket in the air frantically and laughed. "Eat it, taxpayers! I'm gonna be my own boss from now on!" Gregg, who chairs the Senate Budget Committee and spent more than $2 million in his last re-election campaign, did admit to some sour grapes in not winning the $340 million jackpot won by an Oregon player in the same lottery. "I wouldn't have minded some of that sweet cash," snickered Gregg, who didn't bother dressing up for the press conferences. Wearing a pair of cutoff jeans, brown flip-flops, and a Senate Budget Committee muscle T, Gregg added, "I only play the lottery when it gets into real money like that. I could've used it more than that Oregon guy. What do they even have in Oregon? I bet he uses that money to move to a kick-ass state like New Hampshire." Though Gregg's announced resignation would be effective immediately, officials at the Republican Party Headquarters, the very mouth of hell, claimed Gregg would soon recant his resignation, and chalked it up to "lottery euphoria." "He does this all the time," said RNC spokesperson Phyllis Harbor. "Last year he fixed up an old Geo of his and sold it and told Cheney he was quitting. Just a few months ago he called in because a banking error in his favor left $3,000 extra in his account. Or maybe that was a beauty contest he won… I may be getting confused with a Monopoly game we played in the office last night. But frankly, Mr. Gregg is fairly high-strung for a Senator. He quit one time when the Sci-Fi Channel had a Twilight Zone marathon on. He ended up taking a sick day and just came in regular. No big deal." Fellow Budget Committee member Sen. Kent Conrad (D, North Dakota) confirmed Sen. Gregg has a tendency to overreact in financial situations. "He was going around everywhere in town just a few months ago, trying to raise $300 million for some 'project' he was putting together. When I asked him about it, it turns out he wanted to open a bait shop by the interstate so he could quit this 'lousy job' and be his own boss. I reminded him he's a millionaire already, and he had perhaps overestimated the amount of start-up capital it takes to open a bait shop. But that's Judd for you. He doesn't take well to numbers." Gregg himself answered some questions by phone, and was so far staying resolved in his plans to leave the Senate. "Forget it. I'm quitting this shitty job. I might give 'em some notice—till the end of the week at least. But come Friday, no joke, I'm outta here." Gregg made a whistling sound to punctuate his impending exit, and the sound of Rosanne playing on Nick-At-Nite could be heard. "Between the lotto money and some stocks and shit I could sell, I might finally be able to buy a partnership in a bowling alley like I've always wanted. I'm so ready to be my own boss it's not even funny." The soon-to-be-ex-Senator was kind enough to respond to all questions, but no one here thought to ask what a Senator is doing playing the lottery anyway. the commune news doesn't play the lottery because it's all just a popularity contest. Ramon Nootles has never won any popularity contests, mostly due to him being an unrelenting asshole.
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Bush’s MySpace Page Traffic Way Down Plans for Tallest Ferris Wheel Scrapped; Yao-Ming Too Busy to Turn It Entwistle Pleads Not Guilty of Murder, Last Several Who Albums Condi Rice Hates the Way She Smiles in Pictures |
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 January 21, 2002
Conundrums Along the MohawkAll right, listen up, we haven't got all day here. This is some important stuff, so pay attention. Being the philosophical sort of sonofabitch that I am, a lot of folks have asked me over the years, "Reed, what's the meaning of life?" and many other stupid and useless philosophical questions. Usually I just tell them all to go piss up a rope, but today I'm feeling magnanimous, so I'm going to answer a few of those questions for you, the inquisitive reader.
One of the questions I've heard over the course of my many years on the planet is this one: "If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a noise?"
Okay, first off, let me say that I believe that may be one of the all-time stupidest questions anyone has ever asked. Why it keeps getting asked is beyond me. But, as I said, I'm here today to give you some answers, so let's go to town on this one. Of course it makes a noise. The bigger the tree, the bigger the noise it makes. Have you ever seen a tree fall in the forest, even on TV or in the movies? It makes a big old sound, doesn't it? Crash! Bam! Loud, you know what I'm saying? Just imagine, all that timber hitting the ground, the branches crashing through the undergrowth, scaring hell out of all the animals, the dust billowing up and leaves and splinters flying every which way. Trust me, it makes a sound, all right. I don't want to have to tell you yahoos again. Okay, next question.
Another one...
º Last Column: I Was Real Funny Before Everybody Got Politically Correct
º more columns
All right, listen up, we haven't got all day here. This is some important stuff, so pay attention. Being the philosophical sort of sonofabitch that I am, a lot of folks have asked me over the years, "Reed, what's the meaning of life?" and many other stupid and useless philosophical questions. Usually I just tell them all to go piss up a rope, but today I'm feeling magnanimous, so I'm going to answer a few of those questions for you, the inquisitive reader.
One of the questions I've heard over the course of my many years on the planet is this one: "If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a noise?"
Okay, first off, let me say that I believe that may be one of the all-time stupidest questions anyone has ever asked. Why it keeps getting asked is beyond me. But, as I said, I'm here today to give you some answers, so let's go to town on this one. Of course it makes a noise. The bigger the tree, the bigger the noise it makes. Have you ever seen a tree fall in the forest, even on TV or in the movies? It makes a big old sound, doesn't it? Crash! Bam! Loud, you know what I'm saying? Just imagine, all that timber hitting the ground, the branches crashing through the undergrowth, scaring hell out of all the animals, the dust billowing up and leaves and splinters flying every which way. Trust me, it makes a sound, all right. I don't want to have to tell you yahoos again. Okay, next question.
Another one I've heard a lot is this ridiculous query: "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
They don't get much easier than that, do they? I'll tell you what, unless your face or your ass cheek happens to be in the path of that one hand, the sound of one hand clapping is exactly nothing. Silence. You ever see a one-armed man try to clap? He waves his hand sideways in the air in front of him, and it's just pathetic. The only sound you could possibly get out of that is the whooshing of the air around him, and that hardly makes any noise at all. I don't know why anyone ever worried about such a dumb idea anyway.
Okay, let's sum up what we've learned so far: If a tree falls, there's noise. One hand clapping, no noise. Are you keeping up with me here? This isn't rocket surgery, people.
Now this last one may seem a little bit trickier to some of you out there, but really it's just as simple as the others. Remember how I said at the beginning of the column that people were always asking me, "Reed, what's the meaning of life?" If you don't remember, I want you to go back and read the first paragraph again. Go on, I'll wait.
All right now, are we all on the same page? Good. Let's get right down to it, then. What is the meaning of life? Think about this in your tiny brains for one second, will you? What is it that keeps this world spinning, that drives people everywhere, that fuels our desires, our needs and our wants, and is responsible for virtually every major world event, good and bad, since time immemorial? That's right, booze and pussy. Booze and pussy! How much simpler could it be? I'm telling you people, the easy answers are always the best.
So there you have it. The answers to some of the most overblown, overhyped philosophical questions of man's existence, just like that. In a nutshell, what I'm saying is noise, no noise, booze and pussy. Simple as that. Now get out of here and become one with everything before I enlighten your ass with my foot. º Last Column: I Was Real Funny Before Everybody Got Politically Correctº more columns
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|  May 26, 2003
Home Sweet HomoGreetings, good homos. Rok Finger here, reporting from the street. Which street isn't important right now, and besides the sign is in a bold font that offends my sensible eyes. Go ask a little bird if you really need to know that detail of my story.
If I've learned one thing from my time on the street, and I have, it's that homos are people too. And by that I mean that everybody's a homo these days. So I hope that's going well for all of you.
Rok Finger, however, is a man cut from a more old-fashioned cloth. Burlap. Most self-respecting men have no time for such a rough, abrasive material, preferring a fabric more pleasing to the touch like Dacron or sponge. Which is why Rok Finger has always sought the company of the female sex. And by that I mean females willing to have sex while I participate or take notes. And thanks to the twin pillars of emotional neediness and parental neglect, these women do exist. Against all odds, especially the steep ones determined by the good people of Las Vegas.
Those unfamiliar with the Finger legend might not know that I built my considerable early fortune on the windfall from a bet I won when my former wife, Arvelyn, slept with me on our wedding night. I had taken action from her parents, a local biologist, and Arvelyn herself, and I am not boasting when I say the odds were low and the payoff large. To this day Arvelyn curses herself for the lack of restraint she showed that night, falling asleep with...
º Last Column: Like a Rolling Rok
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Greetings, good homos. Rok Finger here, reporting from the street. Which street isn't important right now, and besides the sign is in a bold font that offends my sensible eyes. Go ask a little bird if you really need to know that detail of my story.
If I've learned one thing from my time on the street, and I have, it's that homos are people too. And by that I mean that everybody's a homo these days. So I hope that's going well for all of you.
Rok Finger, however, is a man cut from a more old-fashioned cloth. Burlap. Most self-respecting men have no time for such a rough, abrasive material, preferring a fabric more pleasing to the touch like Dacron or sponge. Which is why Rok Finger has always sought the company of the female sex. And by that I mean females willing to have sex while I participate or take notes. And thanks to the twin pillars of emotional neediness and parental neglect, these women do exist. Against all odds, especially the steep ones determined by the good people of Las Vegas.
Those unfamiliar with the Finger legend might not know that I built my considerable early fortune on the windfall from a bet I won when my former wife, Arvelyn, slept with me on our wedding night. I had taken action from her parents, a local biologist, and Arvelyn herself, and I am not boasting when I say the odds were low and the payoff large. To this day Arvelyn curses herself for the lack of restraint she showed that night, falling asleep with the key to her chastity belt in plain view on her key ring atop the hotel nightstand. We were married fifteen years before she paid off that debt, after which time I had to learn to use my legs again and adjust to a life of not being carried around all the time.
If I've learned two things from my time on the street, and some would argue that I have, one would be the homo thing, no doubt. But the other thing is that we've really come a long way in bed-making technology since the days when everyone slept in cardboard boxes on the street. You don't realize just how comfortable a real bed is until you've spent a night sleeping in a dumpster full of basketballs behind a sporting goods store. Regardless of slanderous comments I may have made in this very column in the past, those mattress-makers really know what they're doing. My apologies go out to them for any uninformed remarks or calls for bloodshed I may have made previous to now.
If you're waiting for a third thing, you'll have to continue doing so as I haven't learned it yet. To be pathetically, shiveringly honest, I'm tired of learning the lessons the street has to offer. Call me old-fashioned, but Rok Finger prefers his lessons in easily-digestible half hour sitcom form, watching shows like COPS from the comfort of my own home. Or even someone else's home. A friend, neighbor or visually-challenged sexual predator would suffice. I don't claim to be picky, as long as you don't harbor political views or any opinions that differ from my own. Any interested parties need only leave their front door open tonight, with a trail of donuts or pulled-pork sandwiches leading to a warm bed near a cable-ready television.
I'll do the rest. º Last Column: Like a Rolling Rokº more columns
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Milestones2002: commune staffer writes this ìMilestonesî blurb, causing time to fold in on itself and destroy the universe.Now HiringCharles Bronson. Experienced Charles Bronson needed to pull off some Deathwish-style menacing to scare off Ivana Folger-Balzac once and for all. Five years Charles Bronson experience minimum. Please provide references, and filmography.Best Unreported News| 1. | President Bush Built from Japanese Parts | | 2. | Dale Earnhardt Fans Waiting Like Fanatics for His Return | | 3. | Lawrenceville, KS Shoney's Buffet Huge Fucking Rip-Off | | 4. | RuPaul All Man Underneath Dress | | 5. | Country of Chad Non-Existent, Just Some Joke by Guy Named Chad | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Vinder Ferfsson 9/16/2011 The Goth Chick With the Attitude
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’ditgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the...
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’d itgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the native tongue, it’s known as a crimson willow. It was brought to the continent by African immigrants as far back as 200 A.D. The long off-yellow stem gives the bulbous red petals a perch from which to adjaksdfaskdadjksdasa Oh, shit, did I doze while typing that? Well, fuck me, it’s a flower. You can’t expect me to really care about background information on a flower. Where’d the goddamn murder mystery go? Still waiting for a stupid body. Let’s just pretend we went through the unnecessary flower background, it’s important for a red herring later. Shit, wasn’t supposed to say "red herring." But that does make me hungry. Let me grab lunch.
*
Hansel Bergenbjörgenfurd had lost everything that mattered to him. His keys as well. He had to rent a car to take him up to the Forfürgen Estate. Never in all of his career as a down-and-out crime reporter had he ever seen such a palatial mansion. Everyone at the Forfürgen Estate was so rich they could afford to dress every letter on every sign in umlauts. As a young boy in Reykjavik, Bergenbjörgenfurd had dreamed of having multiple-umlaut wealth. But like his once-promising journalistic career, all of Bergenbjörgenfurd’s dreams had died.
Through the umlaut-laden hallway he passed, admiring the pictures of long-dead relatives who might be important later, I’m just saying. The butler, because I should have mentioned there was a butler, led him into the Lunch Hall, which was adjacent to the Breakfast Hall and on the opposite wing from the Brunch Hall, the Dinner Hall, and one floor beneath the Midnight Snack Hall. There waited Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Please, call me Hansel," Bergenbjörgenfurd insisted.
"I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad, smoking a Barginfarg brand cigarette. "Let’s cut to business, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd: I wish to hire you."
Bergenbjörgenfurd was stunned, and slightly exhausted. "I don’t work as a reporter anymore. I don’t care how much money you have."
"We have all the money," Skafaldingyad said. "All of the money in Iceland."
"Oh, then I do care."
"We have a murder we wish you to investigate," said Skafaldingyad. "If you are successful, it could restore both your name… and your career. But you will need help. The help of a Goth chick. With an attitude."
*
At home with her laptop computer, Muriel Salamander crunched on Snöktjargon cookies and surfed the internet. She had hacked the bank account of a disreputable corporate slimeball and was transferring all his money to NOW, just for laughs. She was always doing such things of a highly moral nature and questionable legal status. It helped her forget the horrible secret in her past, which is revealed on page 435, if you simply can’t wait to find out later.
She was a girl of modest height, with jet-black hair that she dyed even blacker, shining green eyes that all innocence had left, a killer body, several tattoos on her neck of unicorns and lygers, and a giant nosering.
A knock at the door grabbed her attention. Could that be the cops there again? She mistrusted all cops, and all men. Most cops were men, so she mistrusted them twice as hard.
She cracked the door, then figured she could continue her kung fu later, the guy was still knocking. Opening the door only part way, she saw an older man that she was inexplicably hot for.
Bergenbjörgenfurd was shocked by the appearance of the girl inside the apartment, particularly the gold nose ring she wore. I should mention that while it’s 2011 in much of the world, it’s 1988 in Iceland.
"Muriel Salamander? The Goth Chick With the Attitude?" asked Bergenbjörgenfurd. He held up pictures of an empty, body-shaped gouge in the snow. "I need your help finding a dead man. And then solving that dead man’s murder."   |
