|  | 
 January 24, 2005 |
Flatbush, NJ Snapper McGee Dedicated American junkies, like Crazy Carl here, claim they can pick quality Afghani product out from lesser stuff even blindfolded, and we had enough time for the Opium Challenge.
"It's the least we can do to help out a poor population struggling to regain livelihood," said "Jizzy" John Webb, a Chicago-area heroin abuser of three years, before drawing a bloody cloud into a syringe stuck in his arm, then shooting it back in.
But fans of heroin aren't the only ones calling "hurrah"...
nternational fraternity received a boost here in America with the news that a large portion of our heroin junkie community is already supporting efforts to rebuild the economy of Afghanistan. The war-torn country, war-torn by us, has had an economic windfall by producing 87% of the world's opium and heroin derivatives, and a good percentage of that world's heroin buyers live in America, typically our inner-cities, our rural opium dens, and our rock concert halls.
"It's the least we can do to help out a poor population struggling to regain livelihood," said "Jizzy" John Webb, a Chicago-area heroin abuser of three years, before drawing a bloody cloud into a syringe stuck in his arm, then shooting it back in.
But fans of heroin aren't the only ones calling "hurrah" at the news. Libertarian economists agree as well. Malcolm Calhoun, of the Sweet Tit, Alabama Calhouns, a developer of open-air flea markets and international playboy, applauded the entrepreneurial spirit of the Taliban-free Afghanis.
"If only more enterprising young men and women would dare to bend these silly laws and make their own fortunes, we wouldn't need welfare in this country," said Calhoun, tapping his pen on his desk as if it made him seem more important. "This country is still suffering backward thinking about growing opium. We would rather subsidize work than let people grown their own stuff and sell it for a major profit—where does that leave us? Buying costly lamps and making inefficient use of our closet floor space. Meanwhile, Afghanistan rakes in the moolah, while honest guys with valuable gardening skills are forced to seek income running in city council elections. By the way—vote Calhoun in May."
Despite holding a virtual monopoly on the world's opium supply, Afghanistan claims it wants out of the business. As a country overcome by poverty and a war-devastated infrastructure, not to mention crippling years as a third world country, Afghanistan's anti-drug czar, a position the country actually has, occupied by a guy who could probably be doing more important work, has proposed that cash subsidies will be needed to end the flow of Afghan gold to the drug-bogarting world. Under the parental guise of the U.S., Afghani president Hamid Karzai declared a holy war on drugs when he took office in December, and as history has long proven, when Afghanis declare a holy war on something, it gets both barrels.
Counter-Narcotics Minister Habibullah Qaderi: "Right now, the 2.3 million farmers who are growing opium in Afghanistan can make more than twice as much with that crop as they can for more legal products, like cotton, rice, and wheat, which are not good for mainlining, I can assure you, but are much more needed within our own country. It is my firm belief that, if we pay them half those prices with money we do not have, they will give up growing opium. I also believe, if I were to run and jump fast enough, I could climb a rainbow all the way to the top."
Two junkies, Ray and Ray-Ray, who frequent the alley behind the commune building here in Flatbush, New Jersey, believed international legalization of opium sales offered the better economic solution.
"Check it out," said Ray-Ray, or possibly Ray, "alcohol and tobacco are, like, ten times more deadly than heroin. I can, like, get drunk and drive a car, that's legal, and I can kill, like, a dozen people driving over them. What the fuck? But if I shoot up with heroin, I'm way too fucking out of it to ever drive a car. It's just safer, dude."
"Plus," said the other Ray, "you can make all kinds of industrial shit out of opium, like rope, clothing, and wigs."
The two smackhounds conferred privately for a few minutes, then admitted that you really can't make any of that stuff, to their knowledge, but they would still like the twenty bucks this reporter promised them. the commune news is not quite ready for the kind of "hard" international economic support Afghanistan needs at this time, but is more than happy to donate to the economies of Mexico and California, but only on the weekends, for recreational economics. Boner Cunningham is a teen correspondent, and though he's worked for us for four years, we've forbade him to get any older.
 |
Falluja almost completely under control, rubble
 Pope Swears God Will Punish Drug Dealers With Poor-Quality Shit  Muslims Protest Violent Cartoons by Fucking Shit Up
Flood-based sitcoms and movie scripts shelved indefinitely
|
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 |
| |
| 
 June 9, 2003
Mornin' Ralph, Mornin' SamWell, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.
Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.
The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some...
º Last Column: Stick a Fork in the Whole Damn Team
º more columns
Well, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.
Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.
The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some semi-coordinated beer-league softball guys you pulled out of a hat, like the Devil Rays did. There's just no way major league teams should be spotting each other runs or having their outfielders play on their knees to make things competitive. If the Tigers were a movie, they wouldn't be Major League, they'd be My Left Foot.
The feel-good story of the year so far is the Expos, who are doing well playing half of their games in a stadium in San Juan, whenever there aren't live chickens running across the field. Word is the locals have never heard of baseball, but turn out in droves to see the strange men wave sticks at each other. A concession is a concession, though, and Puerto Rican fans even got into the MLB spirit by hitting Carl Everett in the head with a radish last week. He wasn't even playing, I hear he was just in town for the world-class cockfighting. It's truly a strange world for the man who doesn't believe in dinosaurs.
People were even getting excited about the Royals this year, but that's only because everybody else in the league is on the disabled list. I don't know who let all these crybabies into the sport, but lately the MLB is like a dodgeball game at a fat camp.
Everybody's talking about Roger Clemens' 300th win, which is about as fun as watching an asshole win at cards. Not that I'm saying Clemens cheats, but if you were playing poker with some guy who suddenly hit you in the head with the five of diamonds, there'd be some eyebrows raised. I hear that as a token of gratitude the Yankees are going to trade him to Detroit for a Cadillac. Go Tigers.
I went to a Twins game last week and Torii Hunter caught a tee shirt they were trying to air-cannon into the stands, that guy's an asshole.
I'll keep you updated on my attempts to get on the Yankee payroll this season. I can still play a little left field, and it's not like they've ever heard the phrase "expense control." So wish me luck, and if you see Steinbrenner, tell him I go to bed every night at 7.
Thanks. º Last Column: Stick a Fork in the Whole Damn Teamº more columns
| 
|  January 20, 2003
Challenge of the Masked DudeThe new year is presenting more hurdles than some excessive hurdle-presenting device of some sort. Remember the Masked Dude?
Yes, former pro-wrestler the Masked Dude has been consistently on my ass like my former glitter-covered spandex tights. If you remember the details from my previous column, you're one up on me—I had to look it up and re-read it just to remember, and it was hell finding the commune on this "internet" thing. But as I mentioned, the Masked Dude, the only 5-foot wrestler in our wrestling league, the Dandies of America, constantly sought me out to turn his zero-win record into a one-win, or higher. As the 4-Foot Nightmare, I was the shortest wrestler in the league and, in the Dude's opinion, the easiest path to victory. But I never fought the Dude, as I recovered from my wrestling infatuation long enough to resign from the D.O.A. and toss my tights to the wind, where they landed in a ladies social group and ruined everyone's evening.
But that wasn't enough for the Masked Dude—he's sought me out like a blood-sniffing hound, always seeking that victory he's so badly wanted. It was truly difficult to track me down, too, considering how I kept my wrestling identity a secret from everyone, even my wife—hell, even my cat, Makeshift. Somehow, though, the Dude found me living with Lee and Camembert and began stalking me, like next-level trailer trash ex-husband stalking, too.
As if the notes weren't bad enough, and...
º Last Column: A High-Resolution New Year
º more columns
The new year is presenting more hurdles than some excessive hurdle-presenting device of some sort. Remember the Masked Dude?
Yes, former pro-wrestler the Masked Dude has been consistently on my ass like my former glitter-covered spandex tights. If you remember the details from my previous column, you're one up on me—I had to look it up and re-read it just to remember, and it was hell finding the commune on this "internet" thing. But as I mentioned, the Masked Dude, the only 5-foot wrestler in our wrestling league, the Dandies of America, constantly sought me out to turn his zero-win record into a one-win, or higher. As the 4-Foot Nightmare, I was the shortest wrestler in the league and, in the Dude's opinion, the easiest path to victory. But I never fought the Dude, as I recovered from my wrestling infatuation long enough to resign from the D.O.A. and toss my tights to the wind, where they landed in a ladies social group and ruined everyone's evening.
But that wasn't enough for the Masked Dude—he's sought me out like a blood-sniffing hound, always seeking that victory he's so badly wanted. It was truly difficult to track me down, too, considering how I kept my wrestling identity a secret from everyone, even my wife—hell, even my cat, Makeshift. Somehow, though, the Dude found me living with Lee and Camembert and began stalking me, like next-level trailer trash ex-husband stalking, too.
As if the notes weren't bad enough, and they really weren't, kind of a disappointment, he began following me everywhere around November. I haven't mentioned it before now because, well, between the private investigators, the tax people, and teens seeking drugs, if I mentioned every time someone was stalking me I'd run out of column space. But unlike the rest, I couldn't buy off the Masked Dude or score anything strong enough to dissuade him. I reported it to the police, but once you get there attention with a firm "Listen, needledicks," they won't hear anything else you say. So I was on my own.
Finally, one night, I got home and found a message scrawled to me on the wall of my apartment hallway, in letters seven-foot high: "I CHALENJ YU, NITMAR!"
With the poor spelling and lack of context, it took a long while to decipher, I can tell you that. I feel a little bad for dumping Camembert out of bed, putting a sack over his head and beating him with a phone book, but you can understand my confusion—who wouldn't assume it was their roommate when first seeing a message like that? I wanted to make sure his challenge was met with enough force to put off another one. But then I remembered Camembert spells very well—he proofreads these columns for me sometimes, like all times. And once he returned to consciousness, he assured me it must have been someone else, and not Lee either. With those two eliminated, and once I had called the staff of the commune and PETA to make sure none of them had anything to do with it, I narrowed my focus to the Masked Dude.
A challenge! To me! An opportunity to end this madness once and for all, and return to regular madness.
If you thought I'd turn it down, you don't know Rok Finger. Yessir, challenge accepted… as I scrawled in ten-foot letters on the outside of our building, just to show up the little prick. I even named the time and place, which I'm keeping secret, but let's just say it took me three buildings to get the entire message across and, well, it's a hefty fine.
One week from tonight, the gauntlet has been throw down. The loser has to pick it up, and Rok Finger never picks up after himself. Boo-ya! º Last Column: A High-Resolution New Yearº more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“My love is like a red, red rose… always surrounded by pricks.”
-Wycked BurnsFortune 500 CookieDuck! Jesus, did you see that? Now may be the time to consider ending your relationship with Columbia House. That weird lump you feel may not be an alien tracking device after all; go ahead and see a specialist. You won't remember the name of that Faith No More tribute band anytime soon.
Try again later.Top 2004 Blockbuster Busts| 1. | For the Love of Godzilla | | 2. | Jaws 5: Jaws of Life | | 3. | Romy & Michelle's Jai Alai Reunion | | 4. | Gargamel: The Movie | | 5. | Dude, Where's My Cartographer?: The Christopher Columbus Story | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 11/25/2002 Hello Yellow, America! Step right up for another dose of Entertainment Police love, and just see if you don't come away with a lump in your throat or breast. Like our forefathers and foremothers before us, pointing their forefingers in a vague gesture of thanks, we're here to give thanks that the holiday movie season is finally upon us. Just as the pilgrims gave thanks that they wouldn't have to sit through any more Indian "coming of age" tales or movies about animal spirits walking around and shitting everywhere, we give our thanks that the big budget movies are finally here. The food industry may try to convince you that you're happy this Thanksgiving because you're eating dried out turkey with your hideous in-laws, but we all know better than that. That smile on your face can be...
Hello Yellow, America! Step right up for another dose of Entertainment Police love, and just see if you don't come away with a lump in your throat or breast. Like our forefathers and foremothers before us, pointing their forefingers in a vague gesture of thanks, we're here to give thanks that the holiday movie season is finally upon us. Just as the pilgrims gave thanks that they wouldn't have to sit through any more Indian "coming of age" tales or movies about animal spirits walking around and shitting everywhere, we give our thanks that the big budget movies are finally here. The food industry may try to convince you that you're happy this Thanksgiving because you're eating dried out turkey with your hideous in-laws, but we all know better than that. That smile on your face can be directly traced back to seeing Stephen Segal kick that guy's ass with a Christmas tree. So without further delay, let's get to the late November movie releases.
In Theaters
Adam Sandler's Eight Crazy Nuts
Eventually, gross-out humor in the movies had to go too far, alienating even the retarded adolescents and middle-aged pro wrestling fans who have made it a goldmine for studios and Tom Green over the last decade. It looks like Adam Sandler may be the one left holding the hot potato when that song stops, because his new film is so over-the-top it makes There's Something About Marty look like Dating the Mormon Way. This time around, Sandler plays an annoying, mealy-mouthed loser named Sadam Andler who has his mother's penny-pinching passion for Mexican pharmaceuticals to thank for the fertility pills that caused him to be born with eight testicles. Sandler milks those extra nuts for all the comedy they're worth, including a nauseating mix-up involving a blind man buying grapes at a produce stand, not to mention Andler's gut-wrenching hazing at the hands of the Chinese ping pong team. If you had to say something good about the film, I guess you'd point out that it's animated, which saves us from any disturbingly realistic nutsack textures. And that's more than enough reason for me to give thanks this year.
Diet Another Day
Bond's apparently getting a little chunky in the ass section these days, as was bound to happen eventually. It's tough to keep the pounds off after 40, even if you are a super-secret limey sex machine. Pierce Bronson squeezes his lumpy can into the penguin suit for one more go-around as he saves the world from rich idiots once again and tries to get into Chuck Berry's daughter's pants. I suppose it's about as good as the last 87 Bond films, but I have to admit it leaves stretch marks on the torso of believability at times. So you're telling me that the Ministry of Spy Shit can outfit 007 with a cell phone built into a tic-tac no problem, but they can't get their hands on some Fen-Phen for this guy? Please.
Extreme P.O.S.
Truth in advertising is a concept that rarely applies to movie titles, as evidenced by such famously misleading crocks as Babe and Naked Lunch. But every once in a while Hollywood spits out an appropriately named flick just to draw in the curious, like Knock Off or Senseless. Well, as Britney Spears would say: "Shit, They've Done It Again." Aiming at the same audience that tapes Mountain Dew commercials, the producers put together a cast of albino piercing models to snivel their way through an hour and a half of weakly justified snowboarding stunts and truly horrible music. Originally titled Duuude!, the producers eventually decided to hedge their bets by giving the film a heavily ironic title, figuring it might give them a shot at Sundance and betting that Generation Ysters wouldn't notice, anyway.
The Friday After Next Friday
Apparently the original title, Two Weeks From Now didn't make it clear enough that this was a sequel to Ice Cube's stinky horror flick I Still Know What You'll Do Next Friday, though you'd think that would be a good thing. If I were them, I'd call it Ain't No Way This is a Sequel to That Shitball, which might cause some translation problems when they release the film in Singapore, since I hear they eat shitballs there. Hey, when in Rome. In the long run, it probably doesn't matter what they call it, since it'll be on Beta in about two weeks. Every once in a while a movie does so poorly they skip the DVD and VHS releases all together and put it out straight to Betamax, figuring that the poor suckers with those types of VCRs will buy anything to try and recoup their entertainment investment. Usually they reserve that honor for Tim Allen movies, but I see them branching out in this case, trying to make inroads into the "found this thing in the dumpster" demographic.
Wes Craven Presents: They…
It's always sad when an artist dies in the middle of a project, leaving us to wonder what might have been had they not opted to crap out early and cheat us out of something that might have been great. Who knows what funny things John Belushi might have yelled, or how fat Jim Morrison might have got, had they not been taken from us so soon. Less compellingly, but more relevant to this review, who knows what horrormeister Wes Craven would have called his last film? He managed to finish the film but kicked off before he could finish naming it, leaving us to wonder what the proper title would have been. They're Invisible But Sound Scary As Hell? They Look Like Throw Rugs But They Eat Your Feet? They're Right Behind You, Dipwad!? The possibilities are endless, and the movie's no help because it's awful, but who knows how good it could have been with the right title?
And that's all she wrote, ladies and gender-neutrals. Check back next issue when we hit the sweet spot between Thanksgiving and Christmas and marvel at all the wonders scheduled for release within. By the way, for those of you have been asking, word is that word on the street is that Margaret Cho's Thanksafuckinglotgiving has been delayed once again, look for that to hit theaters in April.   |
