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August 22, 2005 |
New York City, NY Whit Pistol Peter Jennings, the world's most popular celebrity, alive or dead. he world remains shocked and eerily obsessed with the mortal departure of ABC news anchor Peter Jennings after his short but well-publicized battle with cancer. With several primetime memorial specials, newspaper editorials, and lots of merchandise on the way to local stores, people are remembering the legacy of the deceased newsman. But no matter what else people might say about the mark he left, one thing all can agree on: He read the news.
"He not only changed the way we thought about the news, but the way we watched the news," said media kiss-ass Earl Shmonster. "I have no examples to back that up. But you name any news event in the past twenty years, you can bet Peter Jennings covered it. Or introduced us to the guy who was covering it. He was faithfully at his desk when...
he world remains shocked and eerily obsessed with the mortal departure of ABC news anchor Peter Jennings after his short but well-publicized battle with cancer. With several primetime memorial specials, newspaper editorials, and lots of merchandise on the way to local stores, people are remembering the legacy of the deceased newsman. But no matter what else people might say about the mark he left, one thing all can agree on: He read the news.
"He not only changed the way we thought about the news, but the way we watched the news," said media kiss-ass Earl Shmonster. "I have no examples to back that up. But you name any news event in the past twenty years, you can bet Peter Jennings covered it. Or introduced us to the guy who was covering it. He was faithfully at his desk whenever something happened that the nation needed to be told about."
Jennings' death, both tragic and timely, has seized the consciousness of a nation that had all but given up on paying attention to the news. His terminal illness has been a dazzling source of conversation and meditation on our own mortality. While some people are already talking about who will be the next ABC news anchor, one thing is patently clear: They will have to die in a really horrific way to steal back the nation's focus from the late Peter Jennings.
"Jennings was a consummate reporter," said a national news editorial copied nearly word for word a thousand times over since the anchor man's death. "He was always in the field, when he wasn't behind the anchor desk. His soothing voice and rugged good looks kept us all calm and placated while he told us about AIDS, rising poverty, election fraud, space shuttles blowing up, and, more recently, terrorism. He was more than the face of ABC network news: He was its voice, too."
The Peter Jennings' death frenzy has carried over beyond a hurricane of media coverage, including a bevy of Jennings-related items for sale on eBay and a series of Jennings news pieces headed for DVD to offer consolation to grief-stricken Jennings fans who possess money. But Jennings' death has affected the world in non-marketable ways, too, convincing several in the population to find out more information about lung cancer. The first thing most of them learn from Jennings' experience: Don't get it.
Spokesperson Nanny Freedmont from the Rubb-Houston Center for Celebrity Deaths: "The death of Peter Jennings was more than the loss of a father, husband, and media professional: It was the loss of someone famous. A person who we saw regularly on the TV every night for years, and whom we've developed a perfectly healthy attachment to. We considered him a friend, and we feel the void he's left behind, and will continue to until at least the next celebrity passes away tragically."
Jennings' departure sparked hundreds of responses from people everywhere, but since we've never heard of most of them, we only selected a few to cover. Like this one from the American Cancer Association:
"Hundreds of thousands of people die from lung cancer every year. But none of them were famous. God bless ye, Peter Jennings, America's nightly news Jesus."
Another fond farewell came from colleague and friendly nightly news rival Dan Rather.
"Jennings was a fine newsman and always read the news without error. He was never stymied by the more challenging words, like 'fiduciary responsibility.' He will be missed. Me, on the other hand, going out in a puff of smoke and a blaze of scandal. I mean, what the fuck, America? What would it take to get a simple friendly good-bye from you people? I'm not on the news anymore either, you know. I guess I'll have to burst into fucking flame or something to get a 'So long and fuck off, Dan!'"
Speaking of bursting into fucking flame, the commune news pays its own final tribute to the world's greatest news reader, Peter Jennings: Out, out, brief candle. the commune news believes our sentimental sayonara to be perfectly acceptable for a recently-deceased news colleague, and denies all suggestions we've gone pussy after our recent vacation. Raoul Dunkin fervently wishes we would avoid using the word "pussy" at the end of all his news articles. What a pussy.
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 May 12, 2003
The President Needs a WingmanTo those of you, like critical sourpuss Sen. Robert Byrd, who chastise President Bush for dressing like an air force pilot and landing in a jet on an aircraft carrier to announce the Iraq war is over, I say this: Let he who has never copped a stance like a seasoned military vet and been chauffeured via jet to a political speech meant to further your position with the voters cast the first stone.
People love to pick on the president, and I should know since the commune used to be one of those people. And, I'll admit, back when I ran my struggling alternative news website www.poopoftheday.com I was on the Bush-bashing bandwagon. We were the first in our bandwith to report of the president's history of frivolous cocaine usage, his poor test scores and muddy academic record, and even the way he rigged the election by eliminating eligible black voters with fraudulent claims they were convicted felons. But what the heck! Let bygones be long gone, it's a new era and the people seem to like the second Bush more than the first, and I say the people are always right.
The fact is, Bush has waged an entirely successful war on Iraq for the benefit of the Iraqi people, and now the big fat jealous Democrats are coming out of the woodwork to nitpick the president to death. Saying he's exploiting the military and shamelessly electioneering his way to the 2004 campaign trail, and he looks like Iceman in that stupid flight suit.
Then they claim the...
º Last Column: Here's Your Objectivity, Dyke º more columns
To those of you, like critical sourpuss Sen. Robert Byrd, who chastise President Bush for dressing like an air force pilot and landing in a jet on an aircraft carrier to announce the Iraq war is over, I say this: Let he who has never copped a stance like a seasoned military vet and been chauffeured via jet to a political speech meant to further your position with the voters cast the first stone.
People love to pick on the president, and I should know since the commune used to be one of those people. And, I'll admit, back when I ran my struggling alternative news website www.poopoftheday.com I was on the Bush-bashing bandwagon. We were the first in our bandwith to report of the president's history of frivolous cocaine usage, his poor test scores and muddy academic record, and even the way he rigged the election by eliminating eligible black voters with fraudulent claims they were convicted felons. But what the heck! Let bygones be long gone, it's a new era and the people seem to like the second Bush more than the first, and I say the people are always right.
The fact is, Bush has waged an entirely successful war on Iraq for the benefit of the Iraqi people, and now the big fat jealous Democrats are coming out of the woodwork to nitpick the president to death. Saying he's exploiting the military and shamelessly electioneering his way to the 2004 campaign trail, and he looks like Iceman in that stupid flight suit.
Then they claim the Iraqi populace is already turning against us, and our plans for leadership are getting bogged down as the Bush administration tries to plant business-friendly candidates the people don't want as the new leadership. They even say there are no weapons of mass destruction found and that's the reason we went over there in the first place—you couldn't be wronger. We went over there for regime change, if you recall. I remember it plain as yesterday. Where do you get this weapons of mass destruction claptrap?
It's slightly possible that may have been one element of our reason for launching ground forces into Iraq, it's been a while since it started, but I'm pretty sure if you check the press records or ask the president he'll tell you the Iraqi people sent a secret coded message asking for our help. I think Saddam also sunk the Luisitania, I'll have to check Fox News for that one. But all of this is pointless needling of the president's plan, because weapons of mass destruction will be found. If not exactly in the Iraqi borders, they were no doubt dragged to Syria. We'll keep looking for the weapons before Saddam can continue to re-locate them, even if we have to look in Pakistan and India. No further than Russia, I'd say, unless that devious bastard hid them in Nebraska or something.
With a 60-70% approval rating, the president needs support now more than ever. There are powerful special interest groups just sniffing for any weakness they can find to take him down, special interests groups like hippies, environmental activists, black voters, or Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn. Don't cow-tow to these radicals. If they had their way, George W. Bush probably wouldn't even be president.
If you ask me, I think President Bush looked quite powerful in his flight suit and air force helmet. It's a shame he had to give the speech so quickly after his pilot landed, otherwise he could have stuck to the original plan, which I hear was to don a snappy sailor suit, which would have kicked ass to see. Sailor suits always make presidents look good. Plus, you put a dog next to him and he looks like the Cracker Jack mascot. º Last Column: Here's Your Objectivity, Dykeº more columns
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|  April 16, 2007
I Could Never Audit Your HeartWhat lurks inside the human heart? Even the most fickle of love muscles has moments where it is full of nothing but joy, and I would only seek these moments for us.
I do not believe the heart can be judged when it is not in love. For a heart in love is at its most pure, like a Hershey chocolate bar with absolutely no nuts, no nougat, nothing but the chocolate you want. A heart in love is a heart as it really is. These moments when we're not in love are moments where we are not even truly existing. It is like love is the band we came to see, the big name on the marquee, and every other moment is us sitting in our seats in the dark, or watching Big Country and calling them assholes while we really seek U2. U2 on stage is akin to the love in our hearts, and that is why we are all really here.
Oh, my Nancy—the Nancy whose heart is mine and no one else's. I am so convinced of our perfect union that I need no proof of our entwined fates. I can see into your heart, and I stare intently at your chest while you try to sleep just in case I could ever do so. But it is in your eyes that I recognize we are the one love either of us will ever have. If your heart were a tax return, I would never audit your heart. Even if some of the math were a little shady and you clearly didn't have 9 dependents like you filled in, I could not bring myself to ask you to bring in your love receipts to my office where I could pore over them and see if everything added up—it...
º Last Column: My Band Alone Can Save Rock 'N' Roll º more columns
What lurks inside the human heart? Even the most fickle of love muscles has moments where it is full of nothing but joy, and I would only seek these moments for us. I do not believe the heart can be judged when it is not in love. For a heart in love is at its most pure, like a Hershey chocolate bar with absolutely no nuts, no nougat, nothing but the chocolate you want. A heart in love is a heart as it really is. These moments when we're not in love are moments where we are not even truly existing. It is like love is the band we came to see, the big name on the marquee, and every other moment is us sitting in our seats in the dark, or watching Big Country and calling them assholes while we really seek U2. U2 on stage is akin to the love in our hearts, and that is why we are all really here. Oh, my Nancy—the Nancy whose heart is mine and no one else's. I am so convinced of our perfect union that I need no proof of our entwined fates. I can see into your heart, and I stare intently at your chest while you try to sleep just in case I could ever do so. But it is in your eyes that I recognize we are the one love either of us will ever have. If your heart were a tax return, I would never audit your heart. Even if some of the math were a little shady and you clearly didn't have 9 dependents like you filled in, I could not bring myself to ask you to bring in your love receipts to my office where I could pore over them and see if everything added up—it doesn't matter. Love has ruined my math skills. The only math that makes sense to me now is 1 + 1 = Us. And even that would not get me through a second grade elementary school. I wish I could be tested on other subjects, for even the most elementary of things I am stupid about since accepting you into my heart. Basic English skills are unwelcome in my mind, phone numbers are quickly forgotten. I have become retarded for love. People should write notes about where I'm going and who I had to see and pin them to my shirt so that I might remain functional in a world where loving you is my only competent skill. I would drink Liquid Plumber right out from under the cabinet, if I momentarily forgot its lethality in the face of your beauty. You would have to rush me to the hospital and get my stomach pumped so I could continue to love you, and in my stomach they might well extract pure love along with the Liquid Plumber, because love is the only thing that fills me. Nancy, why must we ever disagree? You should know when I called the ending to that Reese Witherspoon movie total horseshit that I could never second-guess your opinion. We've already talked about how completely helpless I am, roaming the world like a blithering idiot due to my obsession with you. It is an obsession that everyone would call unhealthy and dangerous if I were not so handsome and you did not return my love even a fraction, which you do. I am incapable of rational action as long as you are alive. Killing you would be the only way to return me to regular intelligence, and I would sooner die than let someone kill you. I love you too much to be intelligent. Allow me to take that I.Q. test as a I offered last night. You will see that you are in love with an unmistakable moron, and that any opinion I ever offer that offends you should count for nothing. Even my opinion on this love is collectively worthless, given I'm two brain cells away from drooling into a bedpan for the rest of my life. I love you that much. At least, that's my perception of it, given my extremely limited capacity. º Last Column: My Band Alone Can Save Rock 'N' Rollº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I never met a man I didn't like, want to kill.”
-Dill "California Angst" WongersFortune 500 CookieYou will fall in love with a new douche this week, a fact that unfortunately has nothing at all to do with feminine hygiene. Try to pay more attention to your figure: word on the street is you're upgrading from "pear-shaped" to "sack of shit-y." You will finally come to understand the phrase "fifteen men on a dead man's chest" this week, thanks to an unfortunate dogpile mishap. Your lucky perfumes: Colonic for Men, Goat's Dong, Eau Du Crapper.
Try again later.John McCain's Most Ill-Conceived Jokes| 1. | Trick "Good for One Free House-Cleaning" coupon he gives to homeless that looks like $100 bill | | 2. | Open letter to Crocodile Hunter widow Terri Irwin inviting her to spend the night with a "real man" | | 3. | "I fully and unequivocably support the rights of homosexuals. Nah, just kidding. That shit makes me throw up." | | 4. | Wearing hole-filled NASA sweatshirt to press conference Saturday | | 5. | Big "I have cancer" gag in 2000 election | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dan D. Nancy 3/4/2002 The Rheumatic Sleeping Doomsday MachineJohn Patriot was cornered. His back was to the wall, literally, and his feet were on the ground and he was reaching for the stars, literally. The stars in question were world- famous action movie heroes Bruno Wills and Armin Schwarzengroove. They were pinned down on the second floor and Patriot, the C.I.A.'s premiere agent, was trying to save them, but had himself been pinned down by a sharpshooter in a tree across the street, who had in turned been pinned down by a large rottweiler just beneath the tree. It wasn't pretty, nor was the situation.
"Please save us!" moaned the cowardly box office star Wills. "I think I speak for both of us!"
"Definitely," said Schwarzengroove, through a barely-discernible accent. "Help to save us, please, Mr. C.I.A. man."

John Patriot was cornered. His back was to the wall, literally, and his feet were on the ground and he was reaching for the stars, literally. The stars in question were world- famous action movie heroes Bruno Wills and Armin Schwarzengroove. They were pinned down on the second floor and Patriot, the C.I.A.'s premiere agent, was trying to save them, but had himself been pinned down by a sharpshooter in a tree across the street, who had in turned been pinned down by a large rottweiler just beneath the tree. It wasn't pretty, nor was the situation.
"Please save us!" moaned the cowardly box office star Wills. "I think I speak for both of us!"
"Definitely," said Schwarzengroove, through a barely-discernible accent. "Help to save us, please, Mr. C.I.A. man."
Patriot hadn't told them his name.
"I'm John Patriot! Stay calm. I've saved the president six times so I think I can handle this situation." Joking helped alleviate the situation for Patriot.
"I'm scared," cried Wills, soiling himself.
"Just take it easy!" shouted Patriot again, growing sick of the two little toads as a bullet whizzed past his head, and Wills' whiz also whizzed past his head down the wall. "Two fat gay rabbis walk into a bar—"
"Patriot!" a familiar voice screamed from across the street. It was Ed McMahon, inexplicably standing in the middle of the firefight, and he was gesturing to Patriot's partner Decent Smith. Smith was standing over the tree sharpshooter, who was now dead on the ground and being gnawed at by the rottweiler.
"Smith, you old son of a bitch!" shouted Patriot. Smith winced, knowing too well it was true. "I thought for sure my bacon was cooked! I'm glad you got here in time!"
"Save the cordialities," Smith rudely said. "You've still got to rescue those rich Hollywood prettyboys!"
"Right!" said Smith, throwing his empty gun aside and pulling a pump shotgun from his back waistband. "We'll continue the cordialities later, at a time when there's no one shooting at us!"
Patriot kicked open the door to the building, knocking a nun standing behind the door unconscious, and speeding down the hall as fast as the C.I.A. 9-time Employee-of-the-Month's legs would carry him.
"I'm coming, prettyboys!" shouted Patriot.
He quickly climbed the stairs and kicked open the door, sending a troop of Boy Scouts careening across the room. At the end of the hall, standing over the two prettyboys, who were cowering in puddles of themselves and begging for their lives, was the wealthy communist drug-dealing terrorist Macarbo Gabizi. Macarbo was from the Middle East and heavily involved in terrorist groups, whom he financed with drug money sold from his Colombian estate, drugs he helped smuggle into the United States through his connections in communist Cuba. Castro, if you must know.
"Macarbo!" exclaimed Patriot, aiming his pump-action shotgun at the hideous villain's face. They had known each other for years, since the beginning of this novel, and as many times as they had nearly killed each other, they felt comfortable on a first-name basis.
"Back off, capitalist western drug-free swine!" muttered Gabizi in his ethnic accent. "These Hollywood scum will be the first to die! How will your America feel when I destroy its two greatest heroes!"
"Its greatest movie heroes," reminded Patriot. "You've still got the real thing to deal with. That's right, Macarbo, these two may be more used to trailers and Hollywood Boulevard she-males than real bullets and blood and bloodshed from bullets. But I'm the one you really want. Let them go. And I'll exchange myself for them."
Though it made no sense, Macarbo agreed, shoving them forcefully from the second-floor window, causing both to sprain their uvulas. As promised, even though it was a promise to a good-for-nothing godless communist smackhead pusher-man insane terrorist… Patriot lowered his gun.   |