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 August 22, 2005 |
Crawford, Texas Junior Bacon Jesus has yet to claim responsibility for the stone-cold "SLUT" graffiti on protest mom Cindy Sheehan's minivan window, but the Lord does work in mysterious ways. Ooh, snap Jesus! Snap!
"Clearly, the creator has made his will known," Bush intoned smugly, as lightning crackled in the background and the lights inside the president's Crawford, Texas ranch dimmed momentarily.
Sheehan had drawn considerable national media attention to her vigil in recent weeks, becoming the focal point for criticism of the president's handling of the war in Iraq and making a tidy sum selling lemonade to the massive news crews that had assembled. But her mother's recent stroke came hot ...
he Bush Administration sighed a whistle of relief this week with the news that Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a US soldier slain in Iraq who had been standing vigil outside the president's Texas ranch for over two weeks, had finally gone home to California to care for her ailing mother.
"Clearly, the creator has made his will known," Bush intoned smugly, as lightning crackled in the background and the lights inside the president's Crawford, Texas ranch dimmed momentarily.
Sheehan had drawn considerable national media attention to her vigil in recent weeks, becoming the focal point for criticism of the president's handling of the war in Iraq and making a tidy sum selling lemonade to the massive news crews that had assembled. But her mother's recent stroke came hot on the heels of news that Sheehan's husband of 28 years had filed for divorce, causing some religious nuts and the president of the United States to suggest that God doesn't like her.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," philosophized Bush further, apparently suggesting that Jesus doles out strokes like some kind of celestial blackjack dealer.
When asked if he worried that his comments might be construed as insensitive, the president grew tense for a moment. "I didn't say 'bitch' again, did I? You heard me wrong; I meant 'beavered.' 'Bereavered.' You know, one of them fitty cent words," explained Bush, brushing a dozen locusts off his ink blotter.
Critics have taken Bush to task for refusing to meet with Sheehan, who wanted to ask Bush what her son had died to accomplish. With his approval numbers dropping like a concrete blimp, the president opted to change his Sheehan-dealing strategy from his morning ritual of randomly firing his shotgun in the air while shouting "Bitch, get offa my lawn!" to the more politically expedient tactic of ignoring her completely.
This required having a tunnel dug so Bush could exit his Texas ranch without passing by the depressing protestors camped out front.
"It was great, just like The Great Escape," reminisced Bush, who took no part in the digging of the tunnel but did buy a six-pack of lite beer for the three itinerant laborers who survived the tunnel's construction and frequent cave-ins.
However, neither the president's hard-to-get act, nor sending his sloppy drunk brother to drive his pickup truck over roadside memorial crosses in the middle of the night, did anything to shake Sheehan's resolve. Meanwhile, frequent unexplained events at the President's ranch in the last week, including blood flowing from the faucets, the Bush twins coming down with catastrophic diarrhea, and the failure of the sun to rise at all on Saturday has some religious scholars and Christians who have actually read the bible questioning if God really is on Bush's side this time.
But before the commune could address this issue with the president, the Secret Service discovered we'd cornered Bush for a candid in-pantry interview, sans handlers, and burst in with guns drawn. Thankfully for the cause of news, this reporter was able to sneak out with the story's notes inside a false leg, which drew surprisingly little scrutiny in spite of the low number of three-legged reporters in Texas. the commune news doth protest too much, or at least that's what they say down at the protest supply store when we bitch about them never having any cool new megaphones. Ivan Nacutchacokov is the commune's resident foreign correspondent, braving such strange and exotic lands as Iraq, North Korea and Texas.
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Washington: Dollar down, unemployment up, economy fantastic
Netflix Raises Rates 60%, Finally Adds Mama's Family Streaming
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Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 September 20, 2004
Roughed Up by an AngelDear readers, I have never been a religious man. I have trouble believing in anything I cannot see, unless it is revealed to me by a trustworthy patron of a familiar bar. But all that has changed—I am now a believer, for I have been touched by an angel. Or not quite touched. Pulverized might be the word for it.
Yes, there is a God, and he deemed I should get the beating of a lifetime to prove it. Or, it's possible, there isn't a God, there's just the dead. Bodiless apparitions hauling ass here and there in our corporeal world, and occasionally taking time out of their schedule to kick our asses. Maybe there's a God, and if that's what he wanted to impress on me, just send me a warning. Not the full-blown throttling I already received, just a slap across the face or something. Just to really drive home the point.
Come to think of it, I'm not really sure what the angel wanted to impart to me. He didn't say much. More of the "talks with his fists" type. But you can't really make a point that way, not a coherent one anyway. He growled and ranted and muttered things here or there, but they mostly concerned some guy named Donnie and the money Donnie owes him. I suppose he thought I was Donnie, it was hard to tell with a ghostly fist boxing my ears.
You may be thinking I have surely seen ghosts before, or had otherworldly encounters—aliens, the sasquatch, time-travelers from the future. And then there's my dead reporter friend Mordecai...
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Dear readers, I have never been a religious man. I have trouble believing in anything I cannot see, unless it is revealed to me by a trustworthy patron of a familiar bar. But all that has changed—I am now a believer, for I have been touched by an angel. Or not quite touched. Pulverized might be the word for it.
Yes, there is a God, and he deemed I should get the beating of a lifetime to prove it. Or, it's possible, there isn't a God, there's just the dead. Bodiless apparitions hauling ass here and there in our corporeal world, and occasionally taking time out of their schedule to kick our asses. Maybe there's a God, and if that's what he wanted to impress on me, just send me a warning. Not the full-blown throttling I already received, just a slap across the face or something. Just to really drive home the point.
Come to think of it, I'm not really sure what the angel wanted to impart to me. He didn't say much. More of the "talks with his fists" type. But you can't really make a point that way, not a coherent one anyway. He growled and ranted and muttered things here or there, but they mostly concerned some guy named Donnie and the money Donnie owes him. I suppose he thought I was Donnie, it was hard to tell with a ghostly fist boxing my ears.
You may be thinking I have surely seen ghosts before, or had otherworldly encounters—aliens, the sasquatch, time-travelers from the future. And then there's my dead reporter friend Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, but frankly I've never believed he was really dead, it all just seemed like a tax dodge. None of that prepared me for seeing a real, actual ghost in my bedroom, demanding from me money I didn't have, and then wiping the bedroom floor with me.
It began as a simple enough evening, in my matching red pajamas and nightcap, monogrammed, of course, turning in for bed. I had clapped off the lights and turned my TV to the late-show reruns of M*A*S*H that I so love. I must have dozed off, because I woke up to complete darkness and the sound of drunken mumbling. I could hear also, beneath the drunk talk, the sound of footsteps. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but darkness. Then, I saw the outline of a hunched-over figure, and heard him dragging his heels toward my bed. At first, I thought it was Rascal, my manservant, playing another prank, but then I realized Rascal is quite the big fellow, and this figure was more of a modest size, like myself. Then I thought it was me, playing some gag on myself, but that made no sense.
Before I could figure out exactly what was happening, a cold hand grabbed my leg. Then, I was yanked out of bed and pummeled. Icy dead knuckles, like the hand of a skeleton, smacked the hell out of my face, fattened my lip, blackened my eye, and held me down against the hard wood floor. I tried to get up, but he couldn't hear my pleas while he was rambling about his money.
Being the investigator I am, I immediately went to find out as much as I could about the penthouse apartment I live in. Quite a fascinating history, if you must know. It turns out a very successful man named Gatsby once lived there, a long time ago, and may have even been the Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald based his character on, at least I've heard great things about him. He was a well-to-do-man, like myself, and very generous, which is where the comparison ends. But those who remember him, like the door man to my building, stress that while Gatsby had been a very generous man, he didn't just give things away. He expected to all debts to be repaid, and apparently had a hell of a drinking problem. I grew excited right away, and was asked to step away from the door. A ghost of a man much like myself! I can't wait to find out more. º Last Column: Iraqi Politics Made Simpleº more columns
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|  October 18, 2004
A Vote For Bush is A Vote For Bush! Bush!Never before in the course of history has one nation so collectively possessed a mental deficiency.
How many polls must come out, one after the other, simply to infuriate me with the conflicting information that the president's approval rating lies around 42% or lower, while up to 49% claim they will vote for him again? Can this be accurate? You're telling me, at any time, up to 7% of voting Americans believe George W. Moron is doing a shitty job as president, and yet they plan on sending him back? At least reality TV is explained for me. Seven or more percent of our population can watch horrific behavior and keep watching just to see how bad things will get.
Well, you've done it—I’m forced to my knees, hands together in the theistic praying fashion, begging you: Don't re-elect the dumbest man in America.
I suppose you ask me to make a case for voting against Bush. Oh, where to start, where to start? Let's begin with personal insults. He is clearly not done evolving. Since he is among the latest in the Bush line, we have to suppose the devolution is perhaps beginning. And let's not forget his grasp of the English language compares unfavorably to that of Taxi's Latka Gravas. He demonstrates a laughable knowledge of American politics, which is disappointing enough for your average high school graduate, but in a president, it's scrotum-shrink terrifying.
A devastating list of personal indictments of the man, and I...
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Never before in the course of history has one nation so collectively possessed a mental deficiency.
How many polls must come out, one after the other, simply to infuriate me with the conflicting information that the president's approval rating lies around 42% or lower, while up to 49% claim they will vote for him again? Can this be accurate? You're telling me, at any time, up to 7% of voting Americans believe George W. Moron is doing a shitty job as president, and yet they plan on sending him back? At least reality TV is explained for me. Seven or more percent of our population can watch horrific behavior and keep watching just to see how bad things will get.
Well, you've done it—I’m forced to my knees, hands together in the theistic praying fashion, begging you: Don't re-elect the dumbest man in America.
I suppose you ask me to make a case for voting against Bush. Oh, where to start, where to start? Let's begin with personal insults. He is clearly not done evolving. Since he is among the latest in the Bush line, we have to suppose the devolution is perhaps beginning. And let's not forget his grasp of the English language compares unfavorably to that of Taxi's Latka Gravas. He demonstrates a laughable knowledge of American politics, which is disappointing enough for your average high school graduate, but in a president, it's scrotum-shrink terrifying.
A devastating list of personal indictments of the man, and I haven't even brought up the cocaine or his inability to do simple tasks, like eat food or ride bicycles. But let's assume you're not swayed by personal attacks, that you're an intelligent, balanced Bush-voter who—wait a minute, do you hear how that sounds? Okay, even if we can't assume that, let's make a political case against the president. Ugh.
He comes from a world of corporate cronyism and rich boy back-scratching. In his first year as president he was attached to the corporate president of Enron, discovered to be heading one of the most corrupt companies as corrupt companies run. Before the end of his term he was tied to other ridiculous under-the-table deals, like the no-bid contract to Halliburton that ended up bilking Americans out of (at least) thousands of dollars. Does that convince you? Money talks, right? He's taking the money right out of your pockets, and if nothing else rattles your narrow perspective, that well should.
Military analysts everywhere will tell you he went into Afghanistan under-prepared, and when he failed to nail Osama bin Laden, tried to convince us the footsoldiers in bin Laden's army were enough, or even more brazen, that replacing the Taliban government and disrupting the Al-Qaeda network with a few rude bombs was enough. In case you haven't guessed, a few aimlessly-thrown bombs could have done that, as Clinton previously proved. Come to think of it, the bombing of Al-Qaeda camps was apparently behind the motivation for the 9/11 attacks, wasn't it? That bodes well for a second Bush term.
And then Iraq… well, if I need go on, you're clearly not informed enough to use your vote right. American soldiers are dead, we have failed to set up a proper government or restore order, and at home, gas prices are at all-time highs while we're occupying one of the most oil-rich countries in the world. Oh, and the economy is entirely a bloody turd.
The truth is, the case for electing Bush is so short, I can make it in the remaining space of this column: The small-minded, paranoid, racist, dogmatic inbreds of the nation are finally interested in politics again. º Last Column: Just a Minor Setback in the Raoul Dunkin Storyº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Christ on a bike! Did anybody else see that guy that looked just like Jesus Christ riding by on a bicycle a minute ago?”
-LeVonn MarthersFortune 500 CookieLast week was your best week; sorry we're late getting to you about that. From here on out, your life's gonna be shit on chips. Your dreams of becoming a major baseball star will be derailed this week by the fact that you couldn't hit a cow in the ass with a shovel. Stop using the term "Gay Bash," at once: it does not mean a fun party for homosexuals. This week's lucky Bings: Crosby, Chandler, Bada, cherries, the sound of a superball being shot out of an air cannon into an old woman's neck flap.
Try again later.Top New Year's Resolutions| 1. | Quit being such an asshole | | 2. | Exercise every day. Every Arbor Day. | | 3. | Kill them all | | 4. | Lose 20 pounds to limey con artist | | 5. | Quit smoking halibut | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/6/2003 Hot damn, America!
Against all odds we're back for another year of Entertainment Police love. Few would have thought we'd last this long, and most of them also believe in unicorns and platonic friendships. But here we are, in the abstract sense, as I'm here now and you'll be there at some later date, and we're both looking at these same words. Only it's not really equal since I don't know what the rest of this is going to say and you can skip ahead if you're in a "Fuck it All" kind of mood. Not really fair for me, but I guess that's why I'm the one getting paid, to deal with that uncertainty.
Now we look ahead to the coming year of 2003 and wonder if we'll see better movies than we did in 2002. Ha, just kidding. We all know that 2002 sucked a big novelty...
Hot damn, America!
Against all odds we're back for another year of Entertainment Police love. Few would have thought we'd last this long, and most of them also believe in unicorns and platonic friendships. But here we are, in the abstract sense, as I'm here now and you'll be there at some later date, and we're both looking at these same words. Only it's not really equal since I don't know what the rest of this is going to say and you can skip ahead if you're in a "Fuck it All" kind of mood. Not really fair for me, but I guess that's why I'm the one getting paid, to deal with that uncertainty.
Now we look ahead to the coming year of 2003 and wonder if we'll see better movies than we did in 2002. Ha, just kidding. We all know that 2002 sucked a big novelty disc, so the real question is how much better 2003 will be. I'm hoping the answer is:
A whole shit of a lot.
On to the movies!
In Theaters
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
There was a lot of shit going on in this movie: the CIA, Ralston-Purina, BET, disco, crop rotation, gongs, Margaret Cho, ninja breakdancing, bad hats, Julia Roberts barking in Morse code, dust, rubber boots full of salmon, the Pointer Sisters, Wheel of Fortune, underoos, sex with robots, John Travolta's childhood retainer, cashew chicken, nuclear autumn, that little alcoholic kid from E.T., saws, Golden Books, Rip Torn, and the list goes on and on. To be honest, I wasn't sure when the movie started or if it's even over now… I left the theater but I keep seeing things that make me think I might have just dozed off in the middle and I'm still dreaming. If that's the case I'm going to be pissed because I hate typing my columns twice.
Just Married Ashton Kutcher
I guess he's cute and all, I mean, it's not like I'd know. But if I were a girl I guess I could see it. If I were a girl. And I was really drunk. But, apparently this Kutcher guy is enough of a dreamboat that tying his knot is a common fantasy among the 12-24 set and a handful of gay sex columnists, so here we get a movie about it. And the lucky girl who gets to pretend to do it more convincingly than most (because of the Hollywood props and whatnot) is Brittany Murphy, who paid her dues by getting her trailer park on with Eminemineminemi… Marshall McLuhan. I guess the movie turned out fine, though to be honest I thought there'd be more explicit honeymoon sex than there was. But I felt that way about Father of the Bride, too, so what are you going to do. All in all it compares favorably to other teenage girl wish fulfillment film such as Monkeybone and Drop Dead Fred Durst.
Love Liza
Philip Dustin Hoffman is fantastic as Liza Minelli in this warped tale of a singer coping with her gay lover's suicide by having everyone call her Rick and pretend she's a man. Talk about bizarre; shouldn't John Malkovich be in there somewhere? It almost got too weird for me when I thought Orson Welles was in the movie, too, but in the end it turned out that was only Kathy Bates. She should do him at parties; I think she could clean up.
The Pianist
Once again the Farley brothers prove that you can't keep a good man down, nor two mediocre men with gross senses of humor. Nor one midget-sized man who walks around in a tuxedo and has a gigantic dong, neither. I'm not sure where the midgets-with-giant-dicks fascination came from, but at least the Farleys put a creative spin on it by making the guy a concert pianist who makes his living playing a baby baby grand. He also gets into plenty of trouble with married women and as I'm sure you can guess he gets drop-kicked a few dozen times and spends part of the movie wedged in a fat man's asshole.
I'm not going to review them, but I just wanted to mention that Steve Guttenberg and Kirk Cameron both have new movies coming out this week, so if you're feeling shitty about your life there's some five-dollar therapy for you.
And that's that, folks, I hope we've rung in the New Year proud. Don't forget to check back in two more weeks when we'll shake the world by doing the exact same thing for like the ten billionth time.   |
