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Republican Majority Mandates Lobster Bibs for DemocratsNovember 11, 2002 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans There's just no way to wear one of those things without looking like an asshole. ess than a week after the Republican smack-down known as the 2002 election, giddy conservatives were chomping at the bit to address their priorities for the upcoming session of Congress. Saturday night, an after-hours weekend meeting and weenie roast for GOP Congressmen both incumbent and newly elect set the tone for the upcoming session. Among the top priorities addressed were mandatory lobster bibs for all Democrats, the implementation of segregated Democrat bathrooms down in the basement behind the boiler room, and the requirement that Democrats sing the teapot song before speaking during congressional debates.
"Well, those boys is some messy eaters, so we figured we'd help 'em out so they can keep their shirts clean," chuckled Senator Thad Cochran from Tennessee.

ess than a week after the Republican smack-down known as the 2002 election, giddy conservatives were chomping at the bit to address their priorities for the upcoming session of Congress. Saturday night, an after-hours weekend meeting and weenie roast for GOP Congressmen both incumbent and newly elect set the tone for the upcoming session. Among the top priorities addressed were mandatory lobster bibs for all Democrats, the implementation of segregated Democrat bathrooms down in the basement behind the boiler room, and the requirement that Democrats sing the teapot song before speaking during congressional debates.
"Well, those boys is some messy eaters, so we figured we'd help 'em out so they can keep their shirts clean," chuckled Senator Thad Cochran from Tennessee.
"The American people have spoken, or more importantly they scribbled in some little bubbles with a pencil, and they've sent a clear mandate about what they want to see in the next two years. Few can deny that Americans are clamoring to see Democrat Representatives with embarrassing words like 'Dickless' and 'Miss Thang' sunburned onto their chests while they are chased by bears on rollerskates. The American people suffered through a long ballot, they had to fill in a lot of pointless bubbles for judges and people they'd never heard of just to make the democracy machine work, and now we owe it to them to hold up our end of the bargain. Let me be the first to wield the spankin' paddle in the name of the American Way," announced Sen. Pat Roberts of Kansas with a gleam in his eye.
When asked by a visibly concerned President Bush when Congress would find time to approve military action in Iraq, Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott looked confused for a moment before replying.
"Ira-? Oh, right, right. Don't worry yourself, Dub. There'll be plenty of time for that after we pass this hilarious bill Orrin's been working on. Get this, we're going to have all of the… Jesus, excuse me, it still cracks me up, we're gonna have all the Democrats carrying around these dog bowls with their names printed on them, to drink out of, you know. And whenever Moynihan goes off on one of his tangents, you know, like he does, I'm going to stand up and do the little pinky-finger thing, you know what I'm talking about. And I say 'Could someone please throw the Senator a frickin' bone here?' Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that we're going to keep a few cases of dog biscuits on hand for everybody to throw at Moynihan when I say that. Shit, let me start over. This is going to be great."
Lott was cut off by Rep. Elect Saxby Chambliss of Georgia, who was doing an impression of a Democrat Congressman in the upcoming 2003 session.
"I'm a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle and here is my spout! I object!"
The gathered Congressmen erupted into laughter and applause, which rose another notch when Sen. Elect Jim Talent of Missouri shot milk out of his nose. the commune news is a profoundly bipartisan organization that prides itself on giving equal coverage to both sides of the "Tastes Great/Less Filling" debate. Ivana Folger-Balzac is harder to get rid of than an Enron sweatshirt and has apparently outlasted the Japanese Mafia, who are entirely overrated.
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President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes learly delighted to have an offensive position at last, President Bush lashed out at “safety ign’rant” airlines and the FAA for its low-wheel requirements on commercial aircraft. According the president’s amusing new platform, safety could be increased a bunchfold with the addition of 8-10 new sets of landing gear on standard airplanes, and hopefully would prevent scenes like the dramatic emergency landing of JetBlue Flight 292 on Thursday. The commercial airline flight JetBlue 292 ran into difficulty landing when its foremost landing wheel arrogantly faced the wrong direction and forced a tense landing situation. The event was made all the more worthy of national attention when it was revealed passengers/potential victims aboard Flight 292 were watching their own ordeal on satellite television, one of the perks the airline offers passengers willing to risk becoming human charcoal on their flights. In the end, the plane landed successful, jetting down the runway covered with foam and emitting sparks in a thrilling scene of real life danger only seen previously on repeats of Jackass. Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South. “Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.” “Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.” Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage |
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 May 27, 2002
What's A Cornhole?I have a question for my loyal readers, or even the disloyal ones, anyone who traipses over the column on their way to reading Entertainment Police or Pickle Barrel or maybe some guys stumble on the page by accident thinking commune is French for pussy or something, I don't know, the French probably have 50 words for it.
My question is: What's a cornhole?
Please don't laugh now, I've just never heard the term before. I grew up in California and we had no real experience with corn out there. I mean, we'd eat it, but it's not like in Iowa or nothing, we didn't go out and plant it and grow it and sit and watch it for hours and burn it for fun or nothing. We had television and yoga where I grew up, not ways to waste your time.
I tried asking my mom and she passed out on the phone, which might be unusual except for the fact she does it all the time. My dad just went into a spiel about how back in his days the homosexuals didn't rub it in your face. I'm not sure what that has to do with corn or why the homosexuals would rub corn in your face, or what exactly it is that they rub in my dad's face that gets him so riled up, but it wasn't worth talking to him for another hour to figure it out.
I asked everybody at the commune and they just break out laughing, like when I ask who's supposed to edit my columns. Nobody would tell me at all, though Ramon Nootles offered to show me. I don't even want to talk to him after the last time he...
º Last Column: Lindsay Wagner Wants Me Dead º more columns
I have a question for my loyal readers, or even the disloyal ones, anyone who traipses over the column on their way to reading Entertainment Police or Pickle Barrel or maybe some guys stumble on the page by accident thinking commune is French for pussy or something, I don't know, the French probably have 50 words for it.
My question is: What's a cornhole?
Please don't laugh now, I've just never heard the term before. I grew up in California and we had no real experience with corn out there. I mean, we'd eat it, but it's not like in Iowa or nothing, we didn't go out and plant it and grow it and sit and watch it for hours and burn it for fun or nothing. We had television and yoga where I grew up, not ways to waste your time.
I tried asking my mom and she passed out on the phone, which might be unusual except for the fact she does it all the time. My dad just went into a spiel about how back in his days the homosexuals didn't rub it in your face. I'm not sure what that has to do with corn or why the homosexuals would rub corn in your face, or what exactly it is that they rub in my dad's face that gets him so riled up, but it wasn't worth talking to him for another hour to figure it out.
I asked everybody at the commune and they just break out laughing, like when I ask who's supposed to edit my columns. Nobody would tell me at all, though Ramon Nootles offered to show me. I don't even want to talk to him after the last time he offered to show me something. Stu Umbrage actually did offer an explanation, but he would only speak in palindromes, so after an hour of him uttering only four words, three of which weren't even palindromes, I gave up. No answer at the commune.
I've heard "cornhole" plenty of times, usually in movies or reading through Omar Bricks' hate mail, but I'm never sure what it's supposed to mean by the context I find it in. It didn't bother me until I picked up a script over the weekend for a part I'm auditioning for next week. The movie is titled Cornhole but I couldn't really grasp the meaning of the word from reading my six-line part. You might guess, I don't like to read entire scripts because I don't want my character to know about things going on that my character wasn't there for, and I also hate to read.
Would you believe "cornhole" isn't in the Webster's dictionary? That's the assumption I'm going on. If anyone finds it in there, let me know. It will definitely be a surprise.
I guess it could be a Spanish word or something, maybe some kind of dip. Sometimes really artsy movies are titled after foreign words because that makes them smarter. If you called a movie Fartknocker you're not getting the same kind of audience as if you called it Le Knocquer de Flatulénte. As far as field research on the term and everything, I've never seen holes in corn. I suppose if you rip a corntree out of the ground the hole left could be called a cornhole, but what's the point of calling somebody that or referring to that in a prison?
So anyway, I hate to take up a whole column with this question, but I've got to find out, it's driving me nuts. Hurry up and let me know, if you can. Nothing would be worse than showing up at an audition for a movie called Cornhole and not knowing what it means. They'd think I'm an asshole or something. º Last Column: Lindsay Wagner Wants Me Deadº more columns
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|  February 9, 2004
Swish Side StoryI'm doing the audition circuit out in Hollywood big time these days, so it wouldn't surprise me to come home and find the apartment a little dusty. Mom always found cleaning to be in defiance of her religion, and dad thinks dusting demeans his manliness. I would say it's the high-pitched girl voice and purple vinyl jacket, but I don't want to get his ire up. Anyway, the dust is no surprise. And in fact, I'm not really surprised to find a gang war between my dad and lesbians either.
I knew some fallout was coming from my sister's revelation she's a homosexual, and dad's gang was getting dangerously full of itself, so it makes sense the two would eventually crash into each other. At least that's what I'm telling myself.
Cassandra and her girlfriend Steve tried to make a new family connection, part of some therapy or something, Cassandra's attempt to heal all the emotional scars in her life that led her into Harvard law and becoming a lawyer, instead of the path I took of pre-teen superstardom and my brother Poot's path of cult worship. She was doing well, too, she at least got to the point where mom was cool with it. Of course, mom said she always liked lesbians, she just didn't know why they all followed each other off a cliff to their deaths. Once again, mom not exactly Harvard material, as Cassandra always says.
If only dad could be so understanding. I suppose I could cut him a little slack by saying he was still struggling to keep...
º Last Column: Fired! º more columns
I'm doing the audition circuit out in Hollywood big time these days, so it wouldn't surprise me to come home and find the apartment a little dusty. Mom always found cleaning to be in defiance of her religion, and dad thinks dusting demeans his manliness. I would say it's the high-pitched girl voice and purple vinyl jacket, but I don't want to get his ire up. Anyway, the dust is no surprise. And in fact, I'm not really surprised to find a gang war between my dad and lesbians either.
I knew some fallout was coming from my sister's revelation she's a homosexual, and dad's gang was getting dangerously full of itself, so it makes sense the two would eventually crash into each other. At least that's what I'm telling myself.
Cassandra and her girlfriend Steve tried to make a new family connection, part of some therapy or something, Cassandra's attempt to heal all the emotional scars in her life that led her into Harvard law and becoming a lawyer, instead of the path I took of pre-teen superstardom and my brother Poot's path of cult worship. She was doing well, too, she at least got to the point where mom was cool with it. Of course, mom said she always liked lesbians, she just didn't know why they all followed each other off a cliff to their deaths. Once again, mom not exactly Harvard material, as Cassandra always says.
If only dad could be so understanding. I suppose I could cut him a little slack by saying he was still struggling to keep control of his gang, the Baiters. Uncle Luke suggested the name because they attract so much jailbait, supposedly. I totally agree with them, as I was telling dad. I think they're the masters of attracting younger girls. Hopefully they'll take my suggestion and start calling themselves the Master Baiters.
But my own enjoyment aside, nothing challenges dad's masculinity more than fully-clothed lesbians. He and Cassandra never got along while we were growing up, he never did stop calling her "the other one." And Cassandra's partner Steve keeps telling her to stand up for herself, which makes for more tension than you could shake a tense stick at. Dad was just trying to taunt them after a while, his way of looking cool in front of the gang. I know he had to have some clue "the rugmunchers" wasn't a politically-correct way to refer to them. Cassandra told me so over Christmas and he must have heard. Anyway, it wasn't long before things blew up and Steve's friends in the National Wymans Collective began to protest.
Should be no surprise dad saw the group of leathernecks out front and took them as a threat to his turf. It was good for dad, in a way, since he rallied the gang together behind him. Uncle Luke put aside his differences and the fight for control of the gang was over, at least temporarily. They challenged the Wymans Collective to a rumble, and who knew, Steve can't turn down a challenge.
Actually, the rumble hasn't happened just yet, it's set for later Friday night this week, after Steve's lecture at NYU about the phallogenic oppression of the menstrual cycle, and dad sews the names on the back of the jackets. But this is a by-the-numbers thing for dad, so I predict the fight was short, the Wymans Collective fought the good fight and overcame, and probably three of the four members of dad's Master Baiters survived. Dad's crafty enough and knows when to abandon a good fight, so I assume he climbed on Freddy Mercury's back and got the hell out of there when the odds turned against him. If Uncle Luke bought the farm, maybe that will put the gang disputes to an end, and maybe even dad learned a little bit of respect for Cassandra and her new pals. In the meantime, I got to find a place in California and erase all excuse for coming back to this apartment. º Last Column: Fired!º more columns
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Quote of the Day“Upon being stopped by the Customs Officer during my trip to America, he asked: 'Have you anything to declare?' I burst forward, telling him, 'Only my genius!' I was promptly beaten to a piteous pulp and subjected to a humiliating search. Needless to say, they found my weed.”
-Wildman OscarFortune 500 CookieLove is a relative term, but even that nugget won't save your ass if you pork your cousin. Stay away from salty snacks this week, even if it means tunneling underground. Try wearing your watch on the other arm—maybe that's your problem. This week's lucky names: Alexia. Ephyn. Scatman. Toolio.
Try again later.Top More Things to Do With a Severed Finger| 1. | Donate it to shop teachers in need | | 2. | Really get your waiter's attention | | 3. | Confuse the hell out of C.S.I. | | 4. | Pick your friends and your nose | | 5. | Dip it in gold; make yourself an "I'm # 1" award | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Albert Daddyton 11/10/2003 Murder in the ToolshedThe cold and rainy, miserable, in a non-judgmental way, London weather was in full effect. At 612 Putter Street, Lord Marbles Pissweather sat quietly in his drawing room, away from the nastiness outside, sawing eloquently on his instrument. Not at all a euphemism, he really had an instrument.
It was at this time I, his loyal assistant Cap'n Trails, called upon his abode. The sound of nipple-exciting music filled the abode. Doffing my hat, I leaned into the drawing room and nodded a greeting to Lord Pissweather.
"I say, Pissweather, good show with that violin."
He put it aside in disappointment, picking up his clever affectation, a Chinese fingertrap. "Yes, quite excellent violin playing, if I may say so myself," agreed Pissweather. "Unfortunately,...
The cold and rainy, miserable, in a non-judgmental way, London weather was in full effect. At 612 Putter Street, Lord Marbles Pissweather sat quietly in his drawing room, away from the nastiness outside, sawing eloquently on his instrument. Not at all a euphemism, he really had an instrument.
It was at this time I, his loyal assistant Cap'n Trails, called upon his abode. The sound of nipple-exciting music filled the abode. Doffing my hat, I leaned into the drawing room and nodded a greeting to Lord Pissweather.
"I say, Pissweather, good show with that violin."
He put it aside in disappointment, picking up his clever affectation, a Chinese fingertrap. "Yes, quite excellent violin playing, if I may say so myself," agreed Pissweather. "Unfortunately, I was attempting to play the fiddle. 'Shortenin' Bread.' Damn this infernal instrument! How I can play the violin at master concerto level and sound like a mental defect playing the fiddle confounds my exceptional logic."
"I wish we had more time to continue this conversation, Pissweather…"
"Really? I had grown quite tired of it already."
"But I'm afraid we have a case to investigate. The Lady Mohoward sexily requests your presence at her estate. I'm afraid there's been—ooo, dreadful to say this outloudly—a murder in the toolshed!"
"How titular," grumbled Pissweather. "Still, I presume we should be moving along right away. The lady awaits."
The Mohoward estate was full of lush greenage and primoweed, adorned foremost with a 3,010-room mansion with ornate pre-Caligula Roman architecture. Pissweather and I made our way to the front door via horse-drawn cart. The horse was homosexual.
"Odd, do you not think—how many rooms do you estimate are in this mansion, Trails?"
"3,010, according to Lady Mohoward, and my narration," I responded.
"3,011—nobody ever counts the guest room," informed Pissweather. "My point, however, is, of all these rooms, why murder someone in the toolshed?"
"Indeed, Pissweather," I kissed up. "It seems to implicate the gardener, Mr. Gardner."
"Yes, if you're easily taken in by deception," said Pissweather, removing his stuck fingers from the Chinese fingertrap. "Damn! Consider this, however: Several of these larger gardens contain the unique African vegetation Plottus Convenienus. It's a rare plant that actually eats blood and evidence. If you were the gardener—"
"Mr. Gardner."
"Correct—would you not be well aware of the evidence-eating properties of the very plants you brought to the estate?"
"Egad, I'm a dimwit! What exactly are you all but explicitly stating, Pissweather?"
"Simplicity, Trails," smirked Pissweather. "The murder was most likely not committed by the gardener—"
"Mr. Gardner."
"Correct—Not committed by him, but by someone who wanted to frame Mr. Gardner, and cover up their crime. One of the estate's more prominent residents."
"Shitcrackers, Pissweather!" I exclaimed.
For more of this great story, buy Albert Daddyton's Murder in the Toolshed   |