|  | 
Saddam Hussein's Dog ShotAugust 4, 2003 |
U.S. soldiers take turns posing in front of the “blown to shit” doghouse
“Now more than ever all Iraqis can know that the former regime is gone and will not be coming back,” President Bush said, modifying slightly a sales pitch from a commercial for Dodge trucks he’d heard that morning.
“A dog that had helped oppress the Iraqi people for years has been put down, and pu...
.S. soldiers sifted through the rubble of a doghouse on the outskirts of Mosul Saturday, celebrating the successful completion of a daring raid that ended with the death of Saddam Hussein’s infamous poodle, Ralphie. Early reports indicate the soldiers were tipped off by an opportunistic local merchant intent on collecting the $5 million reward offered by the U.S. government for information leading to the death or capture of the former dictator’s prime pooch. “Now more than ever all Iraqis can know that the former regime is gone and will not be coming back,” President Bush said, modifying slightly a sales pitch from a commercial for Dodge trucks he’d heard that morning. “A dog that had helped oppress the Iraqi people for years has been put down, and put down with extreme prejudice,” Bush continued, possibly referencing Apocalypse Now by way of Old Yeller. A public outcry followed when Bush made similar statements after the deaths of Saddam Hussein’s sons Odai and Qusai last week, proclaiming the regime to be history despite the fact that Saddam himself was still at large and U.S. forces were coming under attack on a daily basis. But Bush assured reporters that with the death of Hussein’s poodle, the regime really was totally gone now. Even more so than before. Bush added that Saddam himself was powerless without his bumbling pervert sons or canine best friend. Unless, of course, Saddam is captured or killed, in which case he would be revealed as an all-powerful monster capable of shooting laser beams out of his eyes. This latest raid was an even more impressive show of force than the last, when U.S. soldiers cornered Hussein’s sons in the bedroom of a house and dispatched everything short of a tactical nuclear strike to “apprehend” the two men and a teenage boy, who were reportedly armed with two handguns, several rocks and a bad attitude. The doghouse in question, one of several “safe houses” Ralphie was known to have in the area, was hit with several Tomahawk cruise missiles and “blown completely to shit” according to military personnel. Army officials said it was too early to comment on whether or not photos of the dead poodle would be distributed to the Iraqi public as proof of his demise, since this would depend on how much of Ralphie they could successfully scrape off of a nearby tree. Despite the optimism of the Bush administration, however, Saddam Hussein remains at large. Local rumors have Saddam disguised as everything from a very ugly woman to a butcher, baker or candlestick maker. One highly slurred report insisted the former dictator was inexplicably disguised as American diva Aretha Franklin, which would be hilarious. But for the commune’s money, this reporter says Hussein is probably roaming the countryside dressed as Osama Bin Laden, all the better to elude U.S. forces. The local merchant who offered the tip, Kamal al-Majid, gave one quote before he was taken into protective custody and most likely transferred to the Witness Relocation Program in America. “It was my decision that the people of Mosul had harbored this dog long enough. He stood in the way of the creation of a new Iraq at the hands of our generous pig-dog American infidel friends. Also, he shit on my sidewalk this morning and that I cannot abide! So now he must go to his great reward in the land where all bitches are in heat.” In the interest of hilarious irony, it is this reporter’s hope that al-Majid’s new life in America somehow involves running a pet store or being involved in veterinary care in the field of loose bowels, if such a thing exists. In related news Sunday, marines castrated a Shetland pony thought to be loyal to the regime. the commune news would like to make it clear that we plan to continue fighting the good fight, even if Red Bagel is ever taken into alien (or other) custody. We definitely don’t fantasize about taking three-hour lunches and getting plowed on the commune’s expense account. Not us. Ivan Nacutchacokov is the commune’s very remorseful foreign correspondent after discovering this week that he never signed up for frequent-flyer miles.
 |
WWII Memorial finally recognizes how cool war is
Man, there are a lot of orphans for sale on eBay
Wine increases lifespan, likelihood of declaring friendship to everyone
Hot model endorses college degrees in web ad
|
Duke Prosecutor Disbarred, Accepts New Position as National Scapegoat High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
| |
| 
 January 21, 2002
Sick and TiredIf there are three sure signs that you're getting butt-raped by lady luck, they're these: you're sick, you're stuck in a waiting room watching a Behind the Music special on someone under the age of ten, and you're listening to Aaron Neville.
This past week I found myself with the lady's strap-on broken off in my poop basket for sure, as I came down with some heinous malady and spent the better part of an hour in some doctor's waiting room before this mannish nurse-thing told me that they didn't accept my "Skipper's Choice: Long John Silver's Health Insurance Discount Card." Before I could lodge a protest, or even throw an elbow, I found myself being dumped out onto the sidewalk by a pair of orderlies the size of East German ballerinas. You can bet the double-mortgaged farm that I cursed the commune and their shitheel "benefits package" the whole way home.
According to the Physician's Desk Reference, I have the Polynesian Swine Flu. I blame that bastard Ramon Nootles. If anyone in this office has been getting up-close and personal with Polynesian swine, it's Nootles.
I've been coughing up some kind of incredibly nasty gelatinous mustard all day. So far I've been on the phone to UNICEF, the CDC and MAPO about this, but none of them have been able to help me. That third company actually makes machines that process taco shells, I'm not sure who I thought they were supposed to be.
What's up with this supposedly space-age society...
º Last Column: Handle with Care
º more columns
If there are three sure signs that you're getting butt-raped by lady luck, they're these: you're sick, you're stuck in a waiting room watching a Behind the Music special on someone under the age of ten, and you're listening to Aaron Neville.
This past week I found myself with the lady's strap-on broken off in my poop basket for sure, as I came down with some heinous malady and spent the better part of an hour in some doctor's waiting room before this mannish nurse-thing told me that they didn't accept my "Skipper's Choice: Long John Silver's Health Insurance Discount Card." Before I could lodge a protest, or even throw an elbow, I found myself being dumped out onto the sidewalk by a pair of orderlies the size of East German ballerinas. You can bet the double-mortgaged farm that I cursed the commune and their shitheel "benefits package" the whole way home.
According to the Physician's Desk Reference, I have the Polynesian Swine Flu. I blame that bastard Ramon Nootles. If anyone in this office has been getting up-close and personal with Polynesian swine, it's Nootles.
I've been coughing up some kind of incredibly nasty gelatinous mustard all day. So far I've been on the phone to UNICEF, the CDC and MAPO about this, but none of them have been able to help me. That third company actually makes machines that process taco shells, I'm not sure who I thought they were supposed to be.
What's up with this supposedly space-age society we're living in? We can put a man on the moon, and write a song about it, but we can't eradicate these germs? And what about the mosquitoes, and horse flies? What the hell good is the military if we're at he mercy of these vermin? I'm all for downsizing the military—if by that you mean shrinking the tanks and missiles down to miniature proportions to blow up viruses and box-elder bugs and whatnot. I can't be the first one who's thought of this.
I've drank so much cough syrup in the last two days that I went to work three times this morning before I realized that I was still laying naked in my bathtub at home, wrapped up in the shower curtain like a pig in a blanket. From there I started going through my medicine cabinet alphabetically, hoping to hit upon some miraculous flu-curing combination somewhere in that pharmacological potluck. No luck so far, but a word to the wise: those herpes pills may provide a powerful buzz, but you'll also grow a third eye in your asscrack. Sometimes it pays to read the small print.
One thing I've learned is that it's best to buy a shot glass specifically for NyQuil shots. That shitty little Dixie cup they give you is worthless, and trust me, your regular shots will taste like Martian ass from that day forward if you try to multi-task with one shot glass. You'll never that disturbing tang all the way out.
I feel like I'm sitting in my own head, looking out at a movie about desk accessories. Good God, that's creepy. I plan to spend this afternoon finding a way to mechanically suction out my sinuses, and also take a jack-handle to whoever's been piping in this Aaron Neville. Again, I suspect Nootles.
Sweet Lord, let me die. I think I just coughed up my own nuts. Bricks out. º Last Column: Handle with Careº more columns
| 
| February 27, 2006
The Deep FreezeNot leaving your house when it's really cold is an art form. Any yuhtz can sew a couple dozen dead geese together in the shape of a parka and head out to brave the elements. It takes a real man of character to exist for days, even weeks in the dead of winter without even putting on underwear. And Omar Bricks has character gushing out every orifice in his body.
As anyone who's ever survived a weekend blizzard knows, the first few days are easy. The fridge is stocked, the cable bill's paid for, and the dog doesn't mind holding it. Then around day four things start to get interesting. Suddenly you're out of Frito dip, and things to dip in it. That's when you have to start tapping into whatever store of canned goods you've wisely packed away for the long, cold winter. And if you're like me, that means you'd better be in the mood for six cans of cilantro and an eight-year-old tin of sardines that's bulged out on one side like a pregnant Gobot.
Before long even those well-thought-out provisions have been exhausted, however, and you have to start getting creative. Sure, there's always pizza delivery, but it takes a unique persuasive ability to convince the Dominoes guy to stop by Walgreens and pick you up some toilet paper on the way over.
Some Chinese places deliver, which is handy, but nobody's come up with the brilliant idea yet for a service that will run to the ATM and get some cash for you so you can pay for Chinese food, and so you end up...
º Last Column: Eat Shit, New Year's
º more columns
Not leaving your house when it's really cold is an art form. Any yuhtz can sew a couple dozen dead geese together in the shape of a parka and head out to brave the elements. It takes a real man of character to exist for days, even weeks in the dead of winter without even putting on underwear. And Omar Bricks has character gushing out every orifice in his body. As anyone who's ever survived a weekend blizzard knows, the first few days are easy. The fridge is stocked, the cable bill's paid for, and the dog doesn't mind holding it. Then around day four things start to get interesting. Suddenly you're out of Frito dip, and things to dip in it. That's when you have to start tapping into whatever store of canned goods you've wisely packed away for the long, cold winter. And if you're like me, that means you'd better be in the mood for six cans of cilantro and an eight-year-old tin of sardines that's bulged out on one side like a pregnant Gobot. Before long even those well-thought-out provisions have been exhausted, however, and you have to start getting creative. Sure, there's always pizza delivery, but it takes a unique persuasive ability to convince the Dominoes guy to stop by Walgreens and pick you up some toilet paper on the way over. Some Chinese places deliver, which is handy, but nobody's come up with the brilliant idea yet for a service that will run to the ATM and get some cash for you so you can pay for Chinese food, and so you end up having to barter housewares with some guy who learned English from watching Iron Chef. After about a week the mailman stops trying to cram any more crap into your jam-packed mailbox, and you begin to run the risk of your lingerie catalogs getting ruined by the snow. What happened to the days when mailmen went door to door, dropping your mail right into your nice warm house through a slot? Now that was convenience! Not that I was alive back then. But now those lazy fuckers can't even be bothered to lean out of the truck a little to stack your mail in a neat little Jenga tower on top of the box. I think that says something about society but I'd rather not go into it right now. So then you have to train some starving neighborhood dog to go fetch your mail from the box, because your own dog is too smart to fall for any of those tricks. And you've got to do it all without going outside or letting a possibly-insane dog into your house. That involves a lot of clever gestures from the window, and most importantly, a Supersoaker full of bacon grease. By week two you find out what kind of survivalist you are, hunting for wild game from the upstairs bathroom window and heating your home by burning yesterday's fashions. Both go hand in hand more than you'd expect, since polyester fumes are a powerful appetite suppressant. That's what the Native Americans used to use before they had Dexatrim. Of course all of this hasn't even scratched the surface of one of the biggest challenges of winter living: getting paid without going to work. Sick days eventually run out, even if you've managed, through a cornucopia of fake voices and accents, to weave a complexly plausible web of lies explaining why you haven't been to work in three weeks. Then it comes time to elevate your game to the next level, which involves convincing people that you're actually calling from work, but have been quarantined to your office and won't be coming out possibly until spring. If you can find a patsy to stencil-paint QUARANTINE on your office door without peeking inside, you're home free. Your mileage may vary in your own place of work, but personally I'd recommend working for the commune in that regard: this place is like a patsy farm. Bricks out. º Last Column: Eat Shit, New Year'sº more columns
|
| |
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.Top 5 Worst Zen Koans| 1. | What is the sound of two dogs fucking? | | 2. | If a tree falls in the woods, doesn't it kill a shitload of ants? | | 3. | Say, what's the meaning of life? | | 4. | Worms have no eyebrows—think about that for a minute | | 5. | (tie) Where's the beef?/Shut the fuck up | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 12/23/2002 S'up, America? Roland McC here, bringing you the movie review love. Right, like you thought it was suddenly going to be Jules Verne or something. Not this week. This week, it's all about the pinnacle of the movie season, the two-week movie release orgy that comes at the end of every year. We take a look at the best of the best below, except for Chicago. I had a bad experience there once, so I'll be goddamned if I'm going to review their movie and give them free publicity. Everyone else, however, is on my good side. Drink in the glitz and have a Merry Christmas for me. On to the movies!
In Theaters
25th Hour
Another touching story of our educational system's failure to teach basic...
S'up, America? Roland McC here, bringing you the movie review love. Right, like you thought it was suddenly going to be Jules Verne or something. Not this week. This week, it's all about the pinnacle of the movie season, the two-week movie release orgy that comes at the end of every year. We take a look at the best of the best below, except for Chicago. I had a bad experience there once, so I'll be goddamned if I'm going to review their movie and give them free publicity. Everyone else, however, is on my good side. Drink in the glitz and have a Merry Christmas for me. On to the movies!
In Theaters
25th Hour
Another touching story of our educational system's failure to teach basic math and number-counting skills to America's youth. Ed Norton is at the top of his skinny-moron form as the nincomboob who is constantly being smacked around by his hefty sidekick Ralph (played in fine pre-heart-explosion form by Philip Dustin Hoffman) when he makes reservations for 13 o'clock lunch or enrages a prostitute by asking if he can get change back from a five. While at times the comedy outweighs the drama, like when Ed makes a bar bet that he can suck off an entire football team, and then finds out how many guys there are on a football team, the film's deeper moments resonate and touch on important issues for counters and can't-counters alike.
Catch Me if You Can
I won't lie and pretend that I've ever not wished that Leo DiCaprio would get waxed by a floor buffer at the airport and put us out of our moviegoing misery, it's pretty much been a constant mantra for me over the last several years. At least since Critters 3. God, he ruined that whole movie. And then Hollywood had to go and rub him all in our faces with that whole Titanic fiasco. That set off a chain of events that led to the trailer for The Beach being played before every movie shown in America for six years, which about drove me out of my own ass. But all that being said, I have to admit that he's perfectly cast as Lucky the Leprechaun in this latest arc of Stephen Spielberg's personal spiral down into weird-movies-with-sappy-endings land. You might as well pass out the Oscar now because Leo IS Lucky the Leprechaun and he WILL mess you up if you get too close to his Lucky Charms. People can drool all they want about James Cagney staying in character for six months to shoot The Grinch, leading to the ruin of his social life, but DiCaprio has spent his entire life in character for this role. And I'll never look at a box of freeze-dried sugar clods in quite the same way again.
Gays of New York
The amazing success of last year's Lords of the Ring has led to a resurgence of interest in gay cinema that this country hasn't seen since Tootsie. While most of the resulting films have been of questionable quality and authenticity, like Arnold Schwarzenegger's Gay of the Jackal and Rutger Hauer's Gay Motorcycle Gunfight, a few gems have snuck through. Marvin Scorcese's Gays of New York is a gripping and hard-hitting drama about the long-forgotten 1970's riots between New York gays who loved disco and those who thought disco was tacky. Some lessons of history may be hard to look at, but for that very reason they should never be forgotten.
Lords of the Ring: The Out-of-Towners
Look, I know they say they planned this thing as a trilogy all along, but I started to doubt that the second I heard the second installment would feature Steve Martin boxing Goldie Hawn. For one thing, neither of them is gay at all. At least Steve Martin isn't. He's straight as tube socks with the stripes across the top. I don't know about Goldie. You can never be totally sure with women, they can seem totally straight forever and then one day you turn on the TV and bam! They're making out with Madonna. But whichever way her wind blows, this was an amazingly poor sequel to one of the greatest gay boxing movies ever. It's like they took the name, slapped it on a movie they were already making, and pretended it had something to do with the original, like Blair Witch 2 or Richard III. There's a load of hype over this one already, but I can't help but think that audiences are going to be hoppin' mad when Goldie goes home with Kurt Russell at the end.
Max
Look, you can call the guy with the little Hitler mustache Max or Hans or whatever you like, but every American born before 1980 is still going to recognize that the movie's about Hitler. Might as well get it out there in the open, up on the marquee even, call your movie something like Hitler Had a Little Dick and you might even win a Golden Globe. Which isn't much, I know, but you can trade them in for half-off a shrimp dinner at Sizzler these days, and that's pretty sweet. Anyway, Cusack is good as the anal little frau-beater, but I think his innate likeability worked against him in this role… they really needed somebody like James Woods or O.J. Simpson to give the audience a proper target for flung popcorn and the shouting of misinformed German stereotypes. Personally, I would have liked to see Robin Williams tackle the role, that would have made for some good insane fun, but he's probably still getting death threats from Patch Adams so I understand why he was unavailable.
That's that, my lovely American pies. The creamy cream of the crop. All that's left is to soak up the movie glory and ride that high as long as nature will allow. But remember, don't hit the Thunderbird too hard in your post-holiday-movie-season depression, because there's always next year. It may seem far off now, a minute speck on a distant horizon, but trust me, it'll be here faster than you can say "I'm wasting my life." See you in the new year, friends and neighbors.   |
