| Loves That Woman ';
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$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
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$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
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$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
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$hartwigtitle='Parade';
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$hoopertitle='Seventh Heaven';
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$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
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$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
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$nedtitle='Cyantology';
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$pickletitle='State of the Art';
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$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
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$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
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$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
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$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
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$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
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Rock Band Bush Forgotten in Record TimeSeptember 2, 2002 |
New York, NY Courtesy Tiger Beat Magazine Last one into the cultural black hole is a rotten egg
Bush rose to fame behind the success of their 1994 album Sixteen Stone, which sold over 15 million copies worldwide and settled hundreds of bets over how long it would take alternative rock to turn into Def Leppard. Bristling under the weight of overwhelmingly poor reviews and tired of not being taken seriously by anyone over the age of fourteen, Bush donned indie producer Steve Albini like a credibility hat for the release ...
neaking up on an enduring place in music history like an albino in a snowstorm, the platinum-selling English grunge band Bush has dropped completely from public memory in record time, a study found Tuesday. Previous record holders The Escape Club could not be reached for comment, as nobody could remember who was in the band or what they looked like.
Bush rose to fame behind the success of their 1994 album Sixteen Stone, which sold over 15 million copies worldwide and settled hundreds of bets over how long it would take alternative rock to turn into Def Leppard. Bristling under the weight of overwhelmingly poor reviews and tired of not being taken seriously by anyone over the age of fourteen, Bush donned indie producer Steve Albini like a credibility hat for the release of their second album, 1996's Razorblade Suitcase. Despite sporting an title that Spinal Tap thought was artsy, the album was another critical failure, sending the band into a deep prettyboy funk. They returned in 1999 with The Science of Things, an attempt to succeed where U2 had failed, by half-heartedly aping popular trends in techno music and alienating every last one of their fans.
Bush drew massive ire from music critics and hipsters on both continents for their 2000 release We're Nirvana, then promptly dropped off the face of the planet when the record-buying public lost its taste for generic bands copying good bands and developed a passion for homogeneously generic bands and rich white teens pretending to be angry and black.
Tuesday's report included a poll of over 3,000 households, none of whom could recall the grunge quartet in any meaningful fashion. Polls of the commune staff and random yokels on the street provided similar results.
Professional man-on-the-street Rodney Brown came the closest to remembering the band with his comment "What was their big song? Crazy Train?"
Others were not so lucky. commune reporter Lil Duncan feigned memory of the band with her claim to have toured with Bush as a groupie in the mid-90's, but her stories of wild debauchery and pharmaceutical excess quickly revealed the band in question to actually have been Scottish uberdorks The Proclaimers.
Other staff members confused the band with similarly forgotten, yet not completely eclipsed pop acts such as The Crash Test Dummies, Fun Lovin' Criminals and Frente.
"I got it. They were the ones with the two drummers, and the guitar player would always get naked for the last song," convenience store clerk Rasham Levin nodded with barrel-scraping conviction.
Whoever the members of Bush were could not be reached for comment as of press time. the commune news will be more than happy to rock the Casbah, just as soon as we can find somebody reliable-looking to ask for directions. Ramon Nootles is no longer afraid, and wants you to know that he eats big, syrup-soaked slices of french toast like you for breakfast.
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No, really, everyone will be dressing as a douchebag this Halloween
 Polish Roof Falls in Following "Drinks Are on the House" Debacle
Tony Dow up 30 stories; expected to plummet
Iran's plan to renew nuclear program inspires hard-ons with 24 producers
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Venezuela Adds Itself to ‘Axis of Evil’ he so-called ‘Axis of Evil,’ which now has more points than a pinwheel, took on another member when the forgettable South American country of Venezuela added itself to the roster of anti-U.S. countries this week. The announcement was made in the most awkward fashion, when President Victor Chavez made allegations that the United States has made plans to invade Venezuela soon. How soon? Chavez didn’t pinpoint a date, but said the invasion would happen imminently. According to Chavez, the U.S. has been planning to invade his country for some time, and he has proof, although he didn’t exactly present it to anybody. The most precise allegation made by Chavez cited “invasion training maneuvers” being made in his country by CIA operatives, who apparently weren’t in Venezuela for one of their thousands of monthly beauty pageants. Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneyland’s French Quarter efugees from the New Orleans disaster were thrilled this week by the news that Mayor Ray Nagin plans to re-open large parts of the city as early as today, allowing the many refugees spread across the American South like spilled milk to finally return home. The decision to return, however, is not so easy for the small number of lucky refugees who were relocated to the French Quarter section of the Disneyland theme park in Anaheim, California during the first days of flooding. “This is great, it’s like being back home, except Disneyer!” gushed socialite Anita Bomes, thrilled with her new New Orleans, a quaint miniature version of the city located near a fake lake that, to date, has never flooded. “Blond Highlights the Devil’s Work,” Says Iran, Straight Men Dow Reaches 13,000, Tao Reaches ∞ |
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 February 2, 2004
Blow WholeFirst off, we need to get it right out in the open that I had nothing to do with that huge whale that blew up in Taiwan last week. Yes, I've received all the congratulatory post cards, phone messages, and boxes of chocolate everyone has been sending, and I thank you all for those. But I'm sorry to say the "Way to go, dude!" is not rightfully mine this time around. I wasn't even in Taiwan last week, and before you start going on about remote controlled detonators and the like, let me also add that I didn't blow up any large mammals last week that I'm aware of either. I'm sure there are still some Omar Bricks fans out there searching for some loophole where whales aren't really mammals or they're related to the platypus or some bizarre shit like that, or maybe I was sleep-pranking again, but trust me on this one guys. Just let it go. Somebody else Bricksed that whale, I spent all last week in line at the DMV getting my death certificate revoked. More on that later.
Make no mistake, I'm completely flattered that when a giant dead whale explodes in the middle of a busy Taiwanese street half a world away, showering pedestrians and shopkeepers in smoky whale gore like some kind of fucked up dead fish piñata, the name Omar Bricks springs immediately to mind. It makes me feel like a lifetime spent in the pursuit of excellence has really paid off. Good to know I'm on the "Who the fuck??" A-list.
But anyone who reads this column closely should know that ever...
º Last Column: A New Hope
º more columns
First off, we need to get it right out in the open that I had nothing to do with that huge whale that blew up in Taiwan last week. Yes, I've received all the congratulatory post cards, phone messages, and boxes of chocolate everyone has been sending, and I thank you all for those. But I'm sorry to say the "Way to go, dude!" is not rightfully mine this time around. I wasn't even in Taiwan last week, and before you start going on about remote controlled detonators and the like, let me also add that I didn't blow up any large mammals last week that I'm aware of either. I'm sure there are still some Omar Bricks fans out there searching for some loophole where whales aren't really mammals or they're related to the platypus or some bizarre shit like that, or maybe I was sleep-pranking again, but trust me on this one guys. Just let it go. Somebody else Bricksed that whale, I spent all last week in line at the DMV getting my death certificate revoked. More on that later.
Make no mistake, I'm completely flattered that when a giant dead whale explodes in the middle of a busy Taiwanese street half a world away, showering pedestrians and shopkeepers in smoky whale gore like some kind of fucked up dead fish piñata, the name Omar Bricks springs immediately to mind. It makes me feel like a lifetime spent in the pursuit of excellence has really paid off. Good to know I'm on the "Who the fuck??" A-list.
But anyone who reads this column closely should know that ever since I blew up that dead horse at the fair a few years back, I haven't been able to get my hands on anything more explosive than a packet of Pop Rocks, scout's honor. Whoever said that reputation is the motherfucker of investigation knew what he was talking about, it's like I'm a walking background check or something. I don't know who blew up that whale, if it was a member of my Taiwan fan club or some long-lost chinky relative who always blended in at the family reunions, but you've got to admire his slanty-eyed spunk. Most people would have stopped at stuffing a stick of dynamite up a carp's ass, but this guy was thinking big. Really big, I hear this was some kind of freakish Shaq whale with a five-foot dork, no kidding. I heard that most of the people who were hurt by flying whale meat didn't duck because they were too busy yelling "Look at that whale cock!" to their friends when it blew.
The official report, of course, is that some kind of nasty gasses built up inside the whale carcass while they were transporting it from the morgue over to the whale graveyard, causing the thing to blow Orca dramatically all over Tainan street right at rush hour. Right, and swamp gas reflected off a unicorn's ass explains the Kennedy assassination. The government guys who are in charge of making that shit up are the same dudes who wrote Ishtar. I trust them about as far as I can throw up. Which is pretty far, but still.
According to commune fact machine Griswald Dreck, whales don't even get gas, thanks to a diet that's heavy on soup and light on Tostada Bel Grandes, if you know what I mean. And when you think about it, the way Griswald has, it really starts to make sense. Can you even imagine what the world would be like if whales had gas? Those fucking things are huge. You'd be reading about ocean liners being capsized by fart bubbles every day in the paper. It'd be just like Titanic, except it would smell even more like rotten eggs.
Well, shit if we're not out of space already, looks like we'll have to wait until next time to explore the issue of why the DMV won't issue a driver's license to somebody who's legally dead. Turns out that "officially" being killed in a car explosion a year and a half ago has a down-side to go with the tax advantages. Go figure.
Bricks out. º Last Column: A New Hopeº more columns
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|  July 21, 2003
Dyslexic Monks"God and I have an understanding. I don't argue He doesn't exist and he won't argue it about me."
You know how some people are really smart but they're no good at tests? I'm like that—no good at tests. I'm not good at remembering stuff or thinking of things real fast either, and I'm not really good at coming up with ideas of my own or knowing things that people just sort of know. But I'm really bad at tests.
Some people call it test anxiety, like where you get really worried about how you're going to do and forget all the stuff you know. But that's not it. I mean, if I knew the stuff and forgot it, that would be bad enough, but I have no clue what they're talking about. One teacher tried to tell me I was dyslexic, but I told him I don't really go to church at all. I can't believe God would be such a dick, if He exists, and take away all my knowledge of everything just to be spiteful. If that's the way he's going to be about it, I'm never going to church. Just to be spiteful.
I have gone to church before, technically. You always hear about how a church is supposed to be a place where anybody is welcome at any time of day or night, no restrictions, but they're just hypocrites. Next time you're driving home Sunday morning with a little whiskey still sloshing around in your gut drive up the steps and into their doors while the dude, the what you call him, is giving his big God speech. See if you'll be welcome then. I can tell you...
º Last Column: Doctor Kiwani
º more columns
"God and I have an understanding. I don't argue He doesn't exist and he won't argue it about me."
You know how some people are really smart but they're no good at tests? I'm like that—no good at tests. I'm not good at remembering stuff or thinking of things real fast either, and I'm not really good at coming up with ideas of my own or knowing things that people just sort of know. But I'm really bad at tests.
Some people call it test anxiety, like where you get really worried about how you're going to do and forget all the stuff you know. But that's not it. I mean, if I knew the stuff and forgot it, that would be bad enough, but I have no clue what they're talking about. One teacher tried to tell me I was dyslexic, but I told him I don't really go to church at all. I can't believe God would be such a dick, if He exists, and take away all my knowledge of everything just to be spiteful. If that's the way he's going to be about it, I'm never going to church. Just to be spiteful.
I have gone to church before, technically. You always hear about how a church is supposed to be a place where anybody is welcome at any time of day or night, no restrictions, but they're just hypocrites. Next time you're driving home Sunday morning with a little whiskey still sloshing around in your gut drive up the steps and into their doors while the dude, the what you call him, is giving his big God speech. See if you'll be welcome then. I can tell you first hand you won't.
Every once in a while I feel bad about what I've done, or what I am, or the box of Cracker Jacks I got that didn't have no surprise in it, but it's not like I need someone to tell me it's God's plan or something dumb to make me feel better. It doesn't make any more sense to me that God thinks it's funny there's no prize in my snacks exactly when I'm in the mood for a lick-on tattoo.
Just for laughs I went to a church once and the church guy there told me they were full. It didn't sound full, that's what I told him. He said it wasn't full, but they were closed for the holidays, and he didn't want to hurt my feelings. Then he pushed me off the steps and ran back inside. I could hear him locking the doors and him and his friends were laughing. What do you call them? Monks?
I guess I could take better tests if I read books and such. I tried reading the Bible but all that "begat" stuff really pissed me off. They introduce like a hundred and something characters in the first few pages. I'm not much of a reader, but I can tell you that's the kind of bad writing that can keep your screenplay from being produced. I still read about five pages of it, two columns on each, and then nobody ever tested me on it. So you can see why I don't ever want to read a book again just because they say there's going to be a test on it. You never know, they're probably lying.
Nine out of ten times they aren't, yeah. Maybe even ninety-nine out of 100. But reading, you know… it's boring. º Last Column: Doctor Kiwaniº more columns
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Milestones1854: Alfred, Lord TennysonĂs ìCharge of the Light BrigadeĂ® is published, giving Rok Finger a polished piece of poetry to mangle when heĂs drunk.Now HiringTreasury Secretary. Government position, includes benefits, pension, all federal holidays off. Responsibilities include advising on economic policies, having economic policies refused, and taking blame for failed economic policies. Ability to explain massive tax cuts in time of high military spending and unemployment a plus.Worst-Selling Wireless Devices| 1. | Sir Flush-a-Lot | | 2. | The SpayMaster | | 3. | "Look Ma, No Hands" Harpoon Gift Set | | 4. | Salad Euthanizer | | 5. | The Mysterious Ouijigenie | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 9/15/2003 Hello commune readers, and welcome to mile three of the Orson Welch movie-review marathon. Can we make it to the finish line? Nobody knows, and even fewer care, but still we trek bravely onward. Not even the howls of derisive mockery, nor the constant flood of hateful emails can get us down. Nor being refused entry to the commune's main offices for not "feeling like a nut" and then returning to our mother's car to find it literally wallpapered with parking tickets, as if parking on top of the median is on par with a serious act of terrorism. Nay, commune readers, we shant be dissuaded, so stop trying to dissuade us… meaning yourselves… okay, meaning me. Quit fucking with me. I'm just trying to do my job here, and your precious idiot-savant Roland McShyster isn't back yet, so just step...
Hello commune readers, and welcome to mile three of the Orson Welch movie-review marathon. Can we make it to the finish line? Nobody knows, and even fewer care, but still we trek bravely onward. Not even the howls of derisive mockery, nor the constant flood of hateful emails can get us down. Nor being refused entry to the commune's main offices for not "feeling like a nut" and then returning to our mother's car to find it literally wallpapered with parking tickets, as if parking on top of the median is on par with a serious act of terrorism. Nay, commune readers, we shant be dissuaded, so stop trying to dissuade us… meaning yourselves… okay, meaning me. Quit fucking with me. I'm just trying to do my job here, and your precious idiot-savant Roland McShyster isn't back yet, so just step off my jock and let's be civil about this, okay? Great. Now for the movies.
In Theaters
Cabin Fever
According to the note Roland McShyster left on my windshield, Cabin Fever is "The taxi-cab industry's winningly botched attempt at creating a new cultural fad, making kids think it's cool to take a cab absolutely everywhere, even to cross the street to get a newspaper." Right. I can see why you people love this guy so much. Morons.
In actuality, Cabin Fever is a bastardized cross between The Blair Witch Project and 28 Days Later, two bastards who certainly didn't need to cross-breed. Look, any time a movie's selling point is "at least it didn't cost much to make," you know you're in trouble. See Robert Rodriguez, below.
Matchstick Men
So Ted Griffin wakes up one morning, and realizes "Oh shit, I wrote Ravenous!" Thank God nobody noticed. But just to be on the safe side, he hurries up and writes Best Laid Plans and Ocean's Eleven to cover his tracks. Good move. Keep 'em laughing about that Ted Nugent's shirt joke and nobody will bother to ask where exactly you came from. And now you can stop padding your resume by pointing out that your grandma was in Jazz Mad back in 1928. Bonus.
But then Ted finally breaks down and listens to his brother Nick's stupid idea for a movie called Matchbox Men about some little tiny guys who drive those die-cast toy cars, which he's been going on about for years. And in a moment of fraternal weakness, Ted actually agrees to co-write the movie with his brother, on the condition that they drop the stupid slot-car angle. Bad move. I mean, good that they dropped the slot cars, bad that they wrote the movie at all. How either of these guys is related to Ridley Scott is anybody's guess, but he must've got too comfortable thinking people had finally forgotten about Legend and he could safely squeak out another turd here. Look for all these guys to do some great work in the near future to try and cover up this burnt spot on the rug.
Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Here's an interesting question: How do you follow up a movie that's famous for being made on a shoestring budget of $7,000 you earned by selling your body to science? If you're Robert Rodriguez and the movie is 1992's El Mariachi, you spend another $7,000 on a mediocre sequel and save the rest of your Hollywood budget to secretly make a bizarre spy movie starring your neighbor's kids. Hollywood caught on, of course, and as punishment made Rodriguez direct The Faculty in 1998, even sneaking Bebe Neuwirth into the cast as a not-so-subtle "fuck you" to Rodriguez. The director got the last laugh however, when his spy movie hit a Teletubbied nerve and Spy Kids was a hit, spawning two sequels. And as the final cumshot in Hollywood's marmalade, Rodriguez has made another El Mariachi sequel, yet again for $7,000, and has spent the rest of the budget fixing up his house. Now I'm not saying you should go see the movie, but you've got to admire those balls.
Secondhand Lions
Okay, first off: Contrary to the message Roland McShyster has been leaving on various office voice mails, this picture is not a pathetic biopic of pathetic film critic Jeffrey Lyons. Though, admittedly, it would probably have been better if it were. Instead, it's a piece of hilarious shit that tries to pass off the anthropologically old Robert Duvall and Michael Caine as endearing elderly gay curmudgeons charged with raising a precocious young tyke played with Haley Joel Osment. Thanks to the combined age and lifeless performance of his co-stars, I think it's safe to say that Osment is, yet again, seeing dead people. About as likeable as someone else's anal cavity, Secondhand Lions will leave you wanting more, more reasons to live and for the love of God keep 'em coming fast.
Underworld
Here's a "chicken-or-the-egg?" riddle for you: Did the fact that Len Wiseman is engaged to Kate Beckinsale get the former prop-lackey his first real gig, writing and directing the bad rubber-werewolf opus Underworld? Or was it Wiseman's involvement that dragged actress Beckinsale into the project and Ike Turnered her into accepting the lead role? If the later is true, we can only imagine what Wiseman talks Beckinsale into in bed, good gravy! The formerly sort of respectable cockney chick-flick queen takes a running broad jump into poop with this ill-advised comic book romp, based on somebody's stoned idea of what a comic book about Halloween would be like. Cross The Matrix with Dark City and Bram Stoker's Dracula, then have somebody with a serious head injury try to tell you about all three of them at once, and you'll have something close to Underworld. Only that would be better since it probably wouldn't take two hours or cost eight bucks. The choice is yours.
That's all we've got to sink our fangs into this week, commune readers. Here's hoping you find something tangy to suck on until next issue's column. Until then, I'll be keeping my fingertips peeled bringing you the sad, sad best Hollywood has to offer. Take care!    |
