Raoul Dunkin, Embedded in Paris

March 31, 2003

Paris, France

Commune Art Dept.

Femme Reporter Raoul Dunkin (lower left corner) reports from the savagely snooty premiere city in France.

aoul Dunkin, insert your own slanderous insult here, reporting for the commune from Paris, France. Somehow my job is to cover a war in the Middle East, though your guess is as good as mine on how to do so from Paris.

The best explanation for how I landed this assignment is that dullest tool in the drawer Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor and possible Bachman-Turner Overdrive member, thought anti-American sentiment runs so high here I'd be ripped apart upon stepping off the plane. Having already sent danger magnet Ivan Nacutcha-whatever to the front lines, this probably seemed like the best option for getting me rubbed out, as I have no doubt the lunatic thinks I'm bucking for his job.

Fortunately for this commune whipping boy, I speak fluent French and my own anti-American sentiment runs so high I fit in pretty well with the locals. I've joined in a few local protests at the local McDonald's, but mostly I've been spending my time drinking the world's best wine, smoking thin cigarettes, and living the high life on Ramrod's expense account. Did you know you can actually buy some of the paintings at the Louvre? Surprised me, too.

Anyway, by the time Bagel gets back and has a look at all the damage Hurley's done I wouldn't be surprised if he finds himself the new public enemy number one. Fine by me. I've had enough shit from those yokels to last Bagel's lifetime. Oh, by the way, if you should ever get to France and they don't ridicule you back to the stone age for being American, you should try some of the cuisine. The women are exceedingly naughty, too. Hot mamas.

I suppose I should report on the war at any rate. Not much to say, to tell the truth. I'm looking out a window facing the western sky right now and I can see no sign of impending missile attacks or bombing raids of any sort. I thought I heard an air raid siren sounding an hour ago but it turned out to be a couple of cats getting familiar with each other. I threw a block of cheese at them (or fromage) and they ran off. No reports of any cat casualties or anything.

I asked the concierge and some other folks about the possibility of chemical weapons, and while there is some notable body funk in the air, I don't think there's too great a risk of attack. I'm still going to go down and buy a canary tomorrow. If there is a chance of a biological weapon attack, it will be an early warning sign, but mostly I just want to some company.

Yesterday I thought I saw a small group of Iraqis surrendering in front of the hotel, but they were actually just selling souvenirs. I bought a T-shirt with the Eiffel tower on it and they retreated into Baghdad. Baghdad CafÃ©, that is, a little coffee place up the street. Nice guys, very fair.

As you can see, it hasn't been extremely eventful in this area. But I promise to stay with this story until news breaks, or until my plane ticket demands I return home. For the commune, this Raoul Dunkin, snickering his ass off.

the commune news is sending its heart out to the troops stationed in the Gulfâ€”they'll have to decide how to divide it up amongst themselves. Raoul Dunkin is possibly the world's worst correspondent, and believe us when we say he's got heavy competition on the staff.

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August 4, 2003

Flaming Pogs & the Partial Robotomy

º Last Column: Whistler's Motherfucker
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So I'm down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn't believe who I ran into. I won't even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don't know who in the hell I'm talking about. He could be some guy I see every other day for all you know, so it might not sound all that strange to you. But trust me, it's plenty strange. Unless he was an extra in a crowd scene in some movie without me knowing it, it's pretty safe to say I haven't seen Alvin since the fourth grade.

So that made it strange, even beyond the fact of running into a dude named Alvin at all. Who's still named Alvin these days, anyway? I used to think that was a name specifically partitioned off by the federal government for use by singing chipmunks and the like, kind of like those 555 telephone numbers you see in the movies. Apparently not, which sucks big wet ostrich eggs for Alvin and other chipmunk-named sad sacks out there.

The situation was a bit uncomfortable, as it usually is when you run into someone you've been subconsciously avoiding for twenty years. It probably didn't help that I never liked Alvin at all when we were kids. That guy was so uptight I bet he wiped his ass with a toothpick. I'm not even sure why I hung out with that kid, but you do a lot of strange things when you're in grade school. I didn't like that Dennis the Menace cartoon either but I still watched the lame thing every day, just because it was on. So I guess I just hung out with Alvin because he was there. Sort of like the Mt. Everest excuse.

Up until the fourth grade, that is. That's when our so-called friendship hit the skids. Alvin has held this petty grudge ever since I told him that if he stuck a GoBot up his ass he'd acquire superpowers and robot strength. And the little eight year-old moron believed me! I'm not sure how the world court would view our situation, but I count that one as almost entirely his fault.

Grade school friendships aren't exactly forged of wrought iron; they're more like tinfoil rubber-cemented to a peanut butter cookie, so this little medical episode was enough to convince Alvin that Omar Bricks was bad news. All because the little wimp had to have a robotomy, which is medical jargon for having a GoBot surgically removed from your ass. Big whoop. Most people have to go through a lot more than that before they send Omar Bricks a "BITE MY DICK" candy on Valentine's Day. I guess Alvin was just sensitive.

So you can imagine this made for a tense meeting outside the movie theater. Alvin actually recognized me first, which was strange because I've always prided myself on looking different than I did when I was eight. But he said the flaming pogs in my hand were a dead give-away. Fair enough.

I asked him if people still made fun of him for having a first name last name and a gay chipmunk first name, but apparently he's some big shot "head of pediatrics" at a hospital somewhere so people only make fun of his name when he's not around. Unlike in grade school, where they made fun of his name while peeing on his ears. He told me the kids think Reggie is his first name, since they call him "Dr. Reggie" and kids are stupid. He didn't actually say the stupid part, but some things are self-evident. He seemed to think the name thing was somehow cool, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I almost threw up when he said that. I don't think there's a kid alive who would actually call this guy "Dr. Reggie" on purpose, if for no other reason than fear that if Reggie Jackson found out they'd get their ass kicked big-time for making Mr. October's name sound gay. Or Reggie Sanders, that guy's even bigger than Reggie Jackson and less prone to do comedy movies, so he might even be meaner.

Alvin and I caught up on old times, which took about twelve seconds since we never really liked each other and the only thing we ever had in common was that we both dug Mr. Heath bars. That's enough when you're a kid, though by the time you're an adult you figure out that some real assholes like Mr. Heath bars, too. So Alvin and I went our separate ways, him traipsing off to his "children's hospital" or whatever and me showing the kids which pogs are the best for soaking up lighter fluid without getting all soggy. Which is just as well. It might've been cool if he had thanked me for piquing his interest in medicine all those years back, maybe even diverted some of that mad pediatrician cash my way as a tribute. But he probably had other things on his mind, like when that pog caught his pants leg on fire.

Kind of funny how we both ended up working with kids though. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Whistler's Motherfucker
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December 20, 2004

The Election of the Twenty-First Century

º Last Column: The Quick Guide to Conspiracies
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Acting Editor's Note: Given that Red Bagel has refused to step outside his office since the November election, and has even stopped sliding articles to us under the door, we have opted to run a previous column of his in this slot. Here is some of Red's on-the-ball coverage of the 2000 presidential race, and we hope it seems as insightful now as it did back when it first ran in the commune then.

George W. Bush will never be president, and I'll tell you why.

For one, and let's call this exhibit A, sir: He's the son of another president, and people didn't like that president all that much. America learned its lesson from John Adams and John Quincy Adams, as well as the two Roosevelts. Having your son be president just doesn't work, it reminds people too much of the king system. The one bright side of electing idiot after idiot is we know we're working our way through the gene pool. Why go back for a dip in the shallow end? We tried the Bush lineage, no geniuses there. Even if the "bad president" gene skips a generation, you think we'd give another Bush four years to prove it? Not happening.

For two, exhibit B, and I don't quite know how to say this delicately: He's a bit monkey-looking. Just a wee bit, with the ears and the beedy eyes, and that big region between his nose and lip. And I swear I've seen him scratch his head with his foot. It was only once, but I did see it.

And third: Al Gore's got way too much personality to beat. The guy's on fire. Ever since he announced he was running for the White House he's been like a tornado of energy, a stunning speech on this hand, polemic debate on the next. People will be saying the W stands for "Who?"

Even if Bush could put together a solid platform and explain it in our English language, the people wouldn't be likely to elect him, since he stands for everything they disagree with. His far-right agenda, his insistence on pushing religion into the public sphere, his ludicrous Reaganesque chasing of a "Star Wars" missile defense program, he's clearly far behind on all real threats facing the nation. It's 2000 already, people have learned the lessons of right-wing Republicanism, they aren't about to repeat the scenario that drove them so deep into recession we had to elect a poontang-pursuing president like Bill Clinton to get us out of it.

No, sir, the real race this year will be between Gore and Nader. I know the numbers don't quite back me up on this yet, but I'm convinced all polling information is done five years before it's presented to the public, so just wait for the figures to catch up. Ralph Nader and his invincible Green Party have gotten the word out about his campaign, and his no-holds-barred approach to the issues that concern people, like the environment and national health care, are clearly in line with the nation's general status as leaning to the far left. The people are finding heart in Nader's message of tackling the corporate welfare system and policing the out-of-control business world. The real question, come November, is Gore or Nader the one to make corporations responsible for their actions?

A tough battle, but I think the Clinton "dynasty" will manage to succeed once again. Even liberal America isn't quite ready for the Nader revolution just yet. Gore will have a term to start setting things right, in his subtle but entrancing way, but come 2004, if he wants to hold the White House for another term, until Hillary is ready for her run, he will have to accommodate the vast legion of Naderites in some way. A Nader vice-presidency? I won't say anything to get me too far ahead of myself. Let's just see how it plays out. I'm safer making predictions about that Matrix sequel they're working on, which all my inside sources guarantee will be the movie to end all movies.

º Last Column: The Quick Guide to Conspiracies
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Quote of the Day

“The unexamined life is not worth livingâ€¦ so show me your tits already.”

-Sol Crates

Fortune 500 Cookie

Nobody loves you anywhere near as much as your mother, but the bad news is you were adopted and never met her. Your "Most Favored Nathan" status will be revoked this week when a more-favorable Nathan arrives in town. Sorry. Try to start flossing your teeth, crotch and armpits, ASAP. This week's lucky bullets: zingers, greenies, pissmakers, Big Bens, deconstipators, "lead flapjacks," armor-piercing, elephant piercing, Ella Fitzgerald-piercing.

Try again later.

Women Other Than Christina Ricci We Want Chained to Our Radiator

1.	Original Wednesday Addams, Lisa Loring
2.	Landladyâ€”You spend the night there and tell me it's heating just fine
3.	Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (still count as one)
4.	Diana Rigg, circa 1968; or now, what the hell
5.	Anybody but that hippie chick protesting for radiator rights I got now

North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie

BY Roland McShyster

2/7/2005

Buenos Aires, America. Hope you're all doing as well today as I was yesterday. Today? Not so much. But I wouldn't kick yesterday out of bed for eating crackers. While in it. Bed, that is. Because you can get a lot of crumbs on the sheets and then you're sleeping all night with cracker crumbs poking you in the ass, unless you sleep in pajamas. But still, even this would not sour me on yesterday. Good day.

Today, however, I've got to review the latest ugly orphans Hollywood has dropped off on our Entertainment Policing doorstep in the black of night. You notice they keep the cute ones for themselves. Cute babies referring to good movies, in this in-depth analogy of my creation. Nope, we get the uglies, and the thrill of giving them a quick once-over before selling them to the...