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 July 11, 2005 |
London, Jolly Olde England Junior Bacon London commuter and mylar balloon enthusiast Roary Tubbs wonders aloud why the subway’s so bloody late today
“Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.”
“This is to be expected of the British,” explained psychologist/ historian hybrid Dennis Mugrew. “I mean, what did you expect? Wild, hyperbolic shows of emotion? These people didn’t even have their...
ith their famously stoic façade put to the ultimate test, Londoners came through with flying colors this week, failing to register the slightest emotion in the face of stunning terror attacks on the city’s mass transit system that left 50 dead and over 700 wounded. “Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.” “This is to be expected of the British,” explained psychologist/ historian hybrid Dennis Mugrew. “I mean, what did you expect? Wild, hyperbolic shows of emotion? These people didn’t even have their pulses raised by WWII. Even when London itself was being bombed in 1940, people were still going out to the pubs and leading their lives as if there weren’t giant bomb craters in the street, and acting as if the pub itself was not on fire. Frankly, I don’t think total thermonuclear annihilation would have much of an effect on the English disposition.” “Yes yes, bloody terrible,” mumbled carpet-layer Damon Brink semi-intelligibly, hoisting his customary 7am pint. “This resolute façade of dour, dutiful melancholy has served the English well through eons of adversity and truly shitty weather,” explained England expert and grinder-sandwich-eating champion Maxwell Tuft. “It’s like American optimism or weird Japanese cartoon sex fetishes. You don’t mess with success.” “It’s a bloody shame about those people,” sighed stockbroker Theodore McCartney, who lost his entire family in the blasts. “You certainly feel for their loved ones. But, you know, life must go on.” “Nope, sorry, I’m afraid I’ve had my humanity bred out of me, perhaps eons ago,” explained tailor Nigel Ruffalo when asked about the attacks, with an upper lip so stiff he could be mistaken for a duck. Authorities believe the attacks to be the work of a terrorist cell with the inappropriately-hilarious name of “The Secret Organization of al-Qaeda in Europe,” which, as the name describes, is thought to be both secret and organized, and reportedly allows only cell members into its tree fort. The British have saved their strongest displays of emotion for these alleged terrorists. “That’s just not playing cricket,” complained Londoner Angie Lowell, the most enraged person in all of England. “Them bad sorts ought to be put to for what they done, had a real talking-to, you know. Can’t have this sort of thing going on, mucking about on the trains when we’ve got places to be.” Meanwhile, the reporting of this story was complicated by confusion over interview subjects who claimed to have been on the tube at the time of the attacks, which this American reporter assumed to mean the television, leading to a mistaken belief that everyone in England gets to be on TV. This reporter’s intense jealousy, however, soon abated as soon as he learned that “the tube” is a quaint British euphemism for the toilet. the commune news sends their deepest condolences to everyone who suffered through last week’s terrible tragedy, by which we mean of course the season finale of Dancing with the Stars. Ivan Nacutchacokov was disappointed by the lack of visceral tragedy and worldwide attention existing in the commune offices upon his return from London to report this story, and we were equally disappointed to have him back.
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Cantor Fitzgerald to take al-Qaeda before Judge Judy
Bush-chosen Afghan president accused of Bush-style election theft
G8 outcome: Poor countries receive long-awaited pot to piss in
Site's Quantum Leap fan fiction lacks subtlety, convincing characterization
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Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
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 January 19, 2004
The Name GameLike the Bible story, Rok Finger is resurrected from the dead. Stand slack-jawed pointing all you want, good people, but of course, I only mean I'm back using my old-fashioned moniker instead of the new and improved Godfrey Bellmont name I was just getting used to.
Apparently the FBI considers it a "security breach" if you tell anyone about your new identity or being involved in the commune. I swore to them I told no one, only the commune readers, which statistics say are close in percentage to no one, but it wasn't good enough for them. They shanghaied us in the middle of the night, throwing us in laundry bags and tossing us into the back of a van and carting us off to another safe house. Though, actually, Camembert did say he was just asked to accompany them to a new location, so I wonder if that guy was even with the FBI.
But no matter. I didn't even spend too long at the new safe house, or the new identity they established for me afterwards. The FBI allowed me to choose my own new name and apparently there's another "Ben Affleck" out there getting a lot of attention, and oddly, more death threats than I ever got as a witness against the mob. Again, bagged and vanned, only to wind up with another secret identity in a new undisclosed location.
Would you believe the name Ted Kaczynski was already taken? I wouldn't want to be that poor son of a bitch. I got a lot of interesting mail, though, even a bunch of returned packages I didn't...
º Last Column: Witness the Healing Power of Protection
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Like the Bible story, Rok Finger is resurrected from the dead. Stand slack-jawed pointing all you want, good people, but of course, I only mean I'm back using my old-fashioned moniker instead of the new and improved Godfrey Bellmont name I was just getting used to.
Apparently the FBI considers it a "security breach" if you tell anyone about your new identity or being involved in the commune. I swore to them I told no one, only the commune readers, which statistics say are close in percentage to no one, but it wasn't good enough for them. They shanghaied us in the middle of the night, throwing us in laundry bags and tossing us into the back of a van and carting us off to another safe house. Though, actually, Camembert did say he was just asked to accompany them to a new location, so I wonder if that guy was even with the FBI.
But no matter. I didn't even spend too long at the new safe house, or the new identity they established for me afterwards. The FBI allowed me to choose my own new name and apparently there's another "Ben Affleck" out there getting a lot of attention, and oddly, more death threats than I ever got as a witness against the mob. Again, bagged and vanned, only to wind up with another secret identity in a new undisclosed location.
Would you believe the name Ted Kaczynski was already taken? I wouldn't want to be that poor son of a bitch. I got a lot of interesting mail, though, even a bunch of returned packages I didn't get a chance to open, but the FBI declared the new name a security leak and moved me quickly to another house.
I actually began to like my next name, Omar Bricks, but I began to get a lot of angry men showing up on my doorstep complaining about how I defiled their sister, daughter, or lawn maintenance vehicle. I was still determined to bear it out, but I began getting calls from the Daredevil Adventurer's Society complaining their dues were 9 years late, and repeated requests from the Car of the Month Club to pay off my supposed balance. Enough was enough, and that was quite enough, so I abandoned that name.
For the sake of anyone else looking to make a name for themselves in the Witness Protection Program, I'll save you some time by saying don't bother with these names: Sammy Gravano, John Gotti Jr., Robert Mugabe, Abraham Lincoln, Sharon Tate, Tommy Chong, Sid Vicious, Martha Stewart, Charles Taylor, Jack Ruby, Slobodan Milosevic, and William McKinley. Not all received threats of bodily harm, but all had more than their share of problems and I wasn't quick to trade Rok Finger's for them.
All this was quite interesting, if for no other reason, I found out the FBI has a limited warranty when it comes to Witness Protection. Earlier this past week they threw themselves into laundry bags, tossed themselves into the back of a van, and disappeared in the night with no other explanation. Camembert said he believed I had taken more than my fair share of new identities, and since I was adamant on giving up my column anyway, they didn't believe it was prudent to waste their time creating another one for me. Which is just as well. I was born a Finger, I'll die a Finger, and perhaps very soon. I still have my mob problem to solve.
Fortunately, I still have my new home in Tempe, Arizona. It is a bit arid, and the commute to commune offices in New Jersey is a bit trying, but it's easily safe from the mob. I would like to see how the mob would even guess I, Rok Finger, now live in Tempe Arizona. º Last Column: Witness the Healing Power of Protectionº more columns
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| August 9, 2004
Camembert in LoveThings could not be worse, even if I had a head made of cheese in the middle of Amsterdam. Or a head made of pot, if you believe those rumors about our European neighbors. Camembert has fallen in love, making him even more intolerable than usual.
Wait, for as they say, it gets worse. You remember my friend Girl Elvis, who set me up with prescription drugs not long ago, and whose real name escapes my memory? Yes, she's the culprit. Damn her and her sexy manly-yet-feminine sneer, and jaw-dropping rendition of "Suspicious Minds."
As good as her word, she dropped by our Flatbush residence a mere three weeks ago in search of a place to lay her head, expecting I would simply open up my doors because I had made such a promise two weeks before. Audacity aside, I decided to make good on my word, because she looks very strong under those sequined sleeves. I had no idea my life would be turned upside down, and not in a "cute illegitimate kid moves into swinging bachelor apartment" sitcom way.
Instantly Camembert took a shine to her. Perhaps it was that alluring pompadour, or her bassy way of introducing herself when she walks into a room: "Hey, ladies and gentlemen, I'm an impersonator of Elvis Presley." They have to say that now, for legal reasons, she informed me. What man could resist her? Me, that's who. The homoerotic undertones alone have kept me up at nights. But not Camembert, apparently he's exceedingly secure in his sexuality, or some...
º Last Column: Lost Vegas
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Things could not be worse, even if I had a head made of cheese in the middle of Amsterdam. Or a head made of pot, if you believe those rumors about our European neighbors. Camembert has fallen in love, making him even more intolerable than usual.
Wait, for as they say, it gets worse. You remember my friend Girl Elvis, who set me up with prescription drugs not long ago, and whose real name escapes my memory? Yes, she's the culprit. Damn her and her sexy manly-yet-feminine sneer, and jaw-dropping rendition of "Suspicious Minds."
As good as her word, she dropped by our Flatbush residence a mere three weeks ago in search of a place to lay her head, expecting I would simply open up my doors because I had made such a promise two weeks before. Audacity aside, I decided to make good on my word, because she looks very strong under those sequined sleeves. I had no idea my life would be turned upside down, and not in a "cute illegitimate kid moves into swinging bachelor apartment" sitcom way.
Instantly Camembert took a shine to her. Perhaps it was that alluring pompadour, or her bassy way of introducing herself when she walks into a room: "Hey, ladies and gentlemen, I'm an impersonator of Elvis Presley." They have to say that now, for legal reasons, she informed me. What man could resist her? Me, that's who. The homoerotic undertones alone have kept me up at nights. But not Camembert, apparently he's exceedingly secure in his sexuality, or some nonsense.
"What do you think of Loretta?" he asked me over breakfast one morning. I launched into an angry diatribe about Loretta Lynn, so-called "Coal Miner's Daughter," before I remembered it was the birth name of Girl Elvis. I then told him exactly what I think of her, that my opinion was strong in no certain direction. "I think she's snazzy," he said.
Disgruntled noise here. He used to think I was snazzy. Or even if he didn't, it was easier to imagine he did when he didn't talk so much. I preferred Camembert when he used to come home quietly from wherever it is he goes and wheels himself into his room, to stay there until I wake him up in the middle of the night to go duck hunting, or whatever escapade has captured my imagination as of late. Now, there's no guarantee he will even be in his room when I want to surprise him! He may be sitting on the couch with his new girlfriend, watching Blue Hawaii. I will not have it. Happiness should not go on under my roof if I'm not getting a slice of it.
Still, I cannot simply kick Girl Elvis out. Again, she looks very strong. I should try to find a way to foil their romance before it begins. I have talked to her about it, and she assures me her intentions are honorable. Or actually, she said, "Camembert… is that the guy who sleeps on the floor in the hallway?" At which point I correct her, no, that's Eugene, I found him in the attic when I bought the house. She insists Camembert or, "that poor little wheelchair kid," is not her type. I think it's all a ruse to further confuse me, and I will not have whatever it is she's making me have.
It's a sad day for Rok Finger when the world doesn't revolve entirely around him and his ever-widening circles. I will command Camembert's full attention once again, or die trying. Or someone might die, at any rate. º Last Column: Lost Vegasº more columns
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Milestones2002: Poet Violet Tiara turns 16 and is a little disappointed by her gift of a Saturn when she had been hoping for a hammock of moonbeams or a tumor full of love.Now HiringDirector of Office Security. Traditional ideas of increasing manpower and investigating odd events not necessary. Must be able to design colorful charts and randomly pick levels of security intensity.
Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Six College Courses for Retards and Sorority Girls | | 2. | Tanks: Why Can't We Drive 'Em? | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Pure Gristle Hamburgers | | 4. | Music Piracy: Are You a Fucking Thief? | | 5. | Critic's Corner: The Sailboat My Husband Painted | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 3/12/2007 It’s a new year, and I’m proud to inform you I’m no longer bagging groceries at the Safeway. They wanted to go in another direction, whatever that means. So now I volunteer at the local library, but I also help my mom with a lot of home repair, which I might not get paid for, but I assure you is work. Of course, in my spare time, I review movies accurately (even superiorly) for the commune. Oh, look—I have the spare time now.
Ghost Rider
It’s about time somebody recognized the link between carnival people and demons of the underworld; unfortunately, this movie seems to make it out to be a good thing. Nicolas Cage, America’s first entirely comic book actor, has found a medium well-suited for him, as a scenery-chewing, Elvis-imitating,...
It’s a new year, and I’m proud to inform you I’m no longer bagging groceries at the Safeway. They wanted to go in another direction, whatever that means. So now I volunteer at the local library, but I also help my mom with a lot of home repair, which I might not get paid for, but I assure you is work. Of course, in my spare time, I review movies accurately (even superiorly) for the commune. Oh, look—I have the spare time now.
Ghost Rider
It’s about time somebody recognized the link between carnival people and demons of the underworld; unfortunately, this movie seems to make it out to be a good thing. Nicolas Cage, America’s first entirely comic book actor, has found a medium well-suited for him, as a scenery-chewing, Elvis-imitating, flaming-motorcycle-riding stunt driver who occasionally bursts into flames, laughs like a player in Reefer Madness, and beats the hell out of demons. Wait—demons are subject to earthly laws? Wow, the devil sucks. And so does director Mark Steven Johnson. The difference is, the devil knows the meaning of the word "subtlety."
The Number 23
Speaking of His Satanic Majesty, he appears as beloved actor Jim Carrey in this film. If you detest conspiracy movies, go and see this one and feel justified in your hatred. The most abstract and ridiculous coincidences become testament to Carrey’s insane number-counting obsession. Carrey worked for reduced pay because he really wanted to make this film, and no one wanted to pay him his usual salary; turns out he really believes in this stuff, but what can you expect of someone being actively courted by the Church of Scientology? They’ve got to be asking themselves how they let this guy slip by during his multi-million dollar heyday. Joel Schumacher, Satan’s personal foreskin, brings his personal touch of evil to a motion picture already headed toward a Wal-Mart 2-for-1 DVD pack.
Zodiac
Everyone has been begging David Fincher to show restraint in his filmmaking for ten years, and this is how he proves everyone wrong. Zodiac is dreary where the usual Fincher film is disgusting, methodical where Fincher is usually flashy, and ambiguous where all other Fincher movies are resolved. The wisdom of making a true-life drama of an unsolved case aside, I would say movies of unanswered questions only have any importance to us when they impact us all or remain unanswerable—but let’s face it: If they bag this guy tomorrow on some DNA evidence, this movie doesn’t even get a DVD release. It becomes an extra on an edition of American Justice you can order directly from A&E. For just once in my life I wish I was Roland McShyster, only so that I could tell you with clear conscience they catch the guy in the end of the movie and his name is Bob Zodiac. Being ethically retarded would certainly have its advantages, but no. *Sigh*
Wild Hogs
Another excellent mystery: What devious fiend in Hollywood thought John Travolta could again carry a movie, if only we hooked him up with three additional stooges? This is exactly the kind of movie that, ten years ago, would have been sent directly to Burt Reynolds or Clint Eastwood to star in; but nowadays Clint’s an auteur more than an actor, and Reynolds only answers the door when it smells like alcohol waiting. So Travolta quickly volunteered to play the role of the aging dullard going through a mid-life crisis, and he takes his other friends along, since they can no longer carry a movie by themselves either. Martin Lawrence is considerably less crazy in this movie, and as a result considerably less interesting, while William H. Macy defies the rumors about himself and proves he will take a movie role even without a good script or any complexity of character. Tim Allen is inexplicably present.
I’ve over-critiqued my welcome, no doubt the Hollywood elite would agree. But with a shovel this loaded, they couldn’t really expect me not to wallow in their mud. The studios do tend to dump a lot of sub-par movies in our theaters between January and May, "dump" being far too accurate a term. Enjoy their droppings.   |
