he world remains shocked and eerily obsessed with the mortal departure of ABC news anchor Peter Jennings after his short but well-publicized battle with cancer. With several primetime memorial specials, newspaper editorials, and lots of merchandise on the way to local stores, people are remembering the legacy of the deceased newsman. But no matter what else people might say about the mark he left, one thing all can agree on: He read the news.

"He not only changed the way we thought about the news, but the way we watched the news," said media kiss-ass Earl Shmonster. "I have no examples to back that up. But you name any news event in the past twenty years, you can bet Peter Jennings covered it. Or introduced us to the guy who was covering it. He was faithfully at his desk whenever something happened that the nation needed to be told about."

Jennings' death, both tragic and timely, has seized the consciousness of a nation that had all but given up on paying attention to the news. His terminal illness has been a dazzling source of conversation and meditation on our own mortality. While some people are already talking about who will be the next ABC news anchor, one thing is patently clear: They will have to die in a really horrific way to steal back the nation's focus from the late Peter Jennings.

"Jennings was a consummate reporter," said a national news editorial copied nearly word for word a thousand times over since the anchor man's death. "He was always in the field, when he wasn't behind the anchor desk. His soothing voice and rugged good looks kept us all calm and placated while he told us about AIDS, rising poverty, election fraud, space shuttles blowing up, and, more recently, terrorism. He was more than the face of ABC network news: He was its voice, too."

The Peter Jennings' death frenzy has carried over beyond a hurricane of media coverage, including a bevy of Jennings-related items for sale on eBay and a series of Jennings news pieces headed for DVD to offer consolation to grief-stricken Jennings fans who possess money. But Jennings' death has affected the world in non-marketable ways, too, convincing several in the population to find out more information about lung cancer. The first thing most of them learn from Jennings' experience: Don't get it.

Spokesperson Nanny Freedmont from the Rubb-Houston Center for Celebrity Deaths: "The death of Peter Jennings was more than the loss of a father, husband, and media professional: It was the loss of someone famous. A person who we saw regularly on the TV every night for years, and whom we've developed a perfectly healthy attachment to. We considered him a friend, and we feel the void he's left behind, and will continue to until at least the next celebrity passes away tragically."

Jennings' departure sparked hundreds of responses from people everywhere, but since we've never heard of most of them, we only selected a few to cover. Like this one from the American Cancer Association:

"Hundreds of thousands of people die from lung cancer every year. But none of them were famous. God bless ye, Peter Jennings, America's nightly news Jesus."

Another fond farewell came from colleague and friendly nightly news rival Dan Rather.

"Jennings was a fine newsman and always read the news without error. He was never stymied by the more challenging words, like 'fiduciary responsibility.' He will be missed. Me, on the other hand, going out in a puff of smoke and a blaze of scandal. I mean, what the fuck, America? What would it take to get a simple friendly good-bye from you people? I'm not on the news anymore either, you know. I guess I'll have to burst into fucking flame or something to get a 'So long and fuck off, Dan!'"

Speaking of bursting into fucking flame, the commune news pays its own final tribute to the world's greatest news reader, Peter Jennings: Out, out, brief candle.

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Hello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you.

As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube.

Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive, and whine at them until they help me. You heard it here first.

My dream is that the commune will ride once again, if at all possible functioning out of my very home. I've literally had this dream hundreds of times. Now before any naysayers get word of this and try to debunk my bona fides, I will freely admit that it is not my house alone. The deed is indeed in my mother's name. But the entire basement level is my sovereign domain, not to be intruded upon even by my mother or her boyfriends. True, they do sometimes invade regardless, when the satellite goes out and they want to watch my wisely redundant cable TV service, or when my mom's main boyfriend Doug wants to have sex in my bathroom. This is because my fuzzy toilet seat cover is quite a bit nicer than theirs upstairs, mostly because I don't have a lot of sex on it.

Anyhow, as you've probably noticed, the commune's downstairs neighbors at Crochet! Magazine have persevered and thrived, moving to swank new digs in Asslatch, New Jersey, and continuing to publish their fine periodical. I've been a loyal subscriber for years, if only because their magazine smelled kind of like the commune offices due to their close proximity. That unique cocktail of aromas, one part Boris Utzov's Russian bologna, one part the smell of plastic burning, one part Rok Finger, was an intoxicating brew that made up for the fact that I don't know anything about crocheting. True, their current editions smell nothing at all of the commune, and are much the poorer for this. But I keep up my subscription purely for the memories, thrice-removed as they may be.

A special thank you to the folks at Hipsoda.com for providing me with this space to re-launch the site. As you're surely aware, Hipsoda.com was able to archive the contents of the commune in its entirety shortly before the devastating fire, and God bless them for that. I don't know the site's owners well, but I imagine them to be intense commune fans second in their devotion only to yours truly. In the one conversation I've had with these fine gentlemen, they claimed to have archived the site to use as evidence in an upcoming lawsuit. But I'm a commune fan, I know sarcasm when I hear it. The thought has crossed my mind that they may just be allowing me this space in the hopes that I will succeed in tracking down the commune's far-flung prodigal sons and daughters, making the serving of subpoenas all the easier. Actually this thought crossed my mind shortly after one of Hipsoda.com's owners told me this is exactly why they were providing me with this space. But, once again: sarcasm.

Sarcasm, you are a wily bitch.

Stay tuned to this space for much, much more.

Zincerely,

Emil Zender

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Hello Boris, this is me.

How is commune persons? So fun? Good to be for you. Boris? Boris is bitching. Boris is living good lives on top of bust in dead car museum, such beautiful place where sun is does shine on metal everywheres like beautiful ocean of lights that does make Boris so blind. Such pretty place for Boris to lived.

Boris does lose counting of days how long Boris lives on top of bust. So long time, like years or fifteen years. Don't not know. Is like to live on dessert island where is no persons but Boris, but island is metal. Also, no cocoanut tree for Boris is to climb and sit in like elephants in adult book. Just Boris and metal island thing in ocean of paining lights. Also, is shit-crazy dog thing on ground, which is like shark in ocean to keep Boris from swimming out of dead car museum.

Dog is name Insane Harry. Don't not know real name, this is Boris name for dog. Dog does just say name is Barking Slobber. Harry is mean like piranha dog, always does want to eat Boris up like marshmallow. So, Boris can't not leave island except when Harry dog is sleeping, then Boris can sneak down for to pee and sneak dinner from venting machine. Then is time for fun screaming run back to bust top before Harry dog can bite Boris in ticklers.

This life thing does go ons for long times routine, then one day surprise persons does come and take bust island away while Boris still living on tops. Then is fun ass-hauling island adventure to go to place call New Olean because bust persons want to helping swamp persons in Olean place. This is such fun trip because Boris does pop head in to talk to bust persons but them doesn't not believe Boris is real, thinking is like imagined Muppet or other drug thing on roof. Boris does like this new role in life.

And Boris does like New Olean place. Is no ass-crazy dog things to eat Boris privates, so Boris can does get down off bust after does stop moving and persons go away for swamp help. Olean is crazy fun place where persons does buy stuffs from stores using chair money. Person does give chair money to store window, there is loud "Thank You" crash, and person does get stuffs for carrying away. So cool this money, more fun than green paper things Boris does always forget and use for blowing nose.

So Boris does buying things this way to bring back to bust roof, journey for supply to return to island home. But, then uh-oh, because persons does buy all of bust insides with bat money and fire money and Boris must move for new place to live because bust does get so hot on bottom like hot dog cooker.

So fun for Boris to wander in swamp city and take in sight. "Hello!" says Boris to friendly clubs of men with gun and things. "Hello!" says Boris to soldier persons who is here to look out for crocodile. "Hell-oh, shits!" says Boris to crocodile who does want Boris legs so badly. This is when Boris does have idea to find new home that is too tall for crocodile to visit when Boris does is sleeping.

Of course Boris find perfect home that is convertible for sun to come in through ceiling, so nice this thing, not like dark Louis apartment that does keep out all sun and does have to make fake rain in bathroom. This Olean place have real rain for cleaning Boris and dirty furniture, and is all free for no monies. And sky ceiling is like TVs for free, with cloud show all times and helicopter show and connect-the-dot show at nightstime.

So cool this swamp place, Boris could be live here forevers. Or at least until house does finish falling-down thing is doing. Then, Boris will finds new living place does not smell like poop sewer. Ok, goodbye to Boris!

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