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$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0829/';
$bageltitle='Taking Back the commune';
$book='2005/0829/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
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$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0829/';
$drecktitle='First Griswald Dreck Chat Transcript';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$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';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0905/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$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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France Harboring Hussein, Bin Laden, HamburglerJune 9, 2003 |
Bethesda, MD Boner Cunningham Hard evidence of the Hamburgler, Hussein, bin Laden and John Wayne Gacy loose on the streets of Paris atching fire crazily like a letter from your ex-husband, the Bush Administration's groundbreaking "Trust us, we know" stance on providing proof for controversial allegations has scored fans in all walks of American life, from adulterers and witch-accusers to the nation's largest newspapers. The latest newspaper allegations streamlined by this new information-disseminating breakthrough involve the rogue nation of France and the obvious role it has played in harboring Osama bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, and, according to one source who in true Bush style refused to prove his own identity, the infamous beef larcenist The Hamburgler.
These latest accusations, which wouldn't have been printed if they weren't true (these folks have better things to do than make up stories, people), c...
atching fire crazily like a letter from your ex-husband, the Bush Administration's groundbreaking "Trust us, we know" stance on providing proof for controversial allegations has scored fans in all walks of American life, from adulterers and witch-accusers to the nation's largest newspapers. The latest newspaper allegations streamlined by this new information-disseminating breakthrough involve the rogue nation of France and the obvious role it has played in harboring Osama bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, and, according to one source who in true Bush style refused to prove his own identity, the infamous beef larcenist The Hamburgler.
These latest accusations, which wouldn't have been printed if they weren't true (these folks have better things to do than make up stories, people), come on the heels of numerous proof-challenged jabs at France's evil underbelly in recent months. Articles appearing in diverse and fancily named American news institutions such as The Washington Times, The Washington Post, and The Post-Washington News Times have brought a host of startling allegations against France and it's 2.7 million unpatriotic non-American citizens. Long perceived to have a soft spot for Iraq, thanks to heavy French investment in the country and lucrative oil contracts, the island nation has only recently been accused of high-level deception, ranging to everything short of putting banana peels under the heels of American soldiers marching on Baghdad. Which we're going to go ahead and accuse them of right now, the weasels.
The impressive New York Times reported damningly in September that in 1998, France and Germany had supplied Iraq with the damned switches needed to detonate democracy-hating nuclear weapons. A French denial issued in a phony accent insisted that Iraq had ordered the parts allegedly for use in medical equipment, but that suspicious French officials had barred the sale and notified the Germans immediately. To which the Times replied wittily, "Oh sure, go crying to the Germans. That sounds just like France."
Sales of chemical components for long-range missiles, armored vehicles, war cheese and radar equipment between France and Iraq were reported, and slimily denied French-style, in April.
The duplicitous French proved even more slippery in November, when the Washington Post quoted a "U.S. intelligence source" as saying the French were hoarding the smallpox virus and selling airplane and helicopter parts to the Iraqis. Thanks to some tricky verbal maneuvering and a technicality, the French slithered off the hook when they demanded proof and the Post admitted that their source was, in fact, an intelligent reader of US Weekly, the nation's foremost authority on dish and celebrity gossip.
The French goose seemed surely cooked in May however, when The Washington Times reported that France had provided passports to fleeing Iraqi leaders, facilitating their escape to Europe. The French protested this story, perhaps too much if you catch our drift, and it was quickly denied by a White House too busy trying to slap Iraqi fingerprints onto some MacGyvered-together chemical weapons to mess with nailing the French to their well-deserved cross. The Times eventually bent to the French pressure and ran a small correction notice on page 4 of the next day's edition, explaining that a small typo had occurred and the original story should have ran with a "not" after every "did" that referred to France.
These latest allegations may prove harder to dodge, however, since the court of public opinion grows weary of these tedious demands for "proof," and France's strategy of deception may eventually backfire comically in their faces. Before long the public will demand that France prove it isn't hiding bin Laden, Hussein and the Hamburgler in the back room of some brothel somewhere, and this could prove difficult given the consensus that the Hamburgler is just some kind of cartoon character used to sell ground beef to infants. Word on the street, however, has it that France is busy cloning the three into one giant-sized tyrant who will oppress all of the world's people and make off with their meat, just like they did in WWII. the commune news don't know much about history, but we do love a good Surrendering French Pansies joke. Boner Cunningham is a real piece of work, and by work, we mean shit.
 | Robot car falls significantly short of standards set by Knight Rider
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Officials to Celebrities: Please Get Out of New Orleans isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now. “We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.” The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation. Wisconsin Man Takes in Jazz Band he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn’t merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He’s taken in a whole jazz band. “I just wanted to do what I could,” Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. “So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed.” However, Martinson didn’t stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles. Finely Aged Winemaker Ernest Gallo Corked Failure of Sirius Radio Blamed on "You Can't be Sirius!" Ad Campaign |
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 November 10, 2003
Why is English So Retarded?Anyone who receives a decent volume of correspondence from the American public will be convinced of one of two things. One is that the American public is retarded. The other is that the English language is retarded. A small subset may conclude that both are true, which is a mean but highly defensible position.
Unless you live on the campus of a major American university, or are rich enough to never have to shop at Wal-Mart, it is a dangerous proposition to believe the bulk of humanity inherently stupid, because the only way off that cruise ship to hell is a Winchester round in the mouth. It is a far better thing to point your stupid-blaming finger elsewhere, and in the case of mainstream America's inability to compose a coherent sentence or spell "comeuppance," the ripest target for pointing is indeed our very stupid language.
As anyone learning English for the first time can attest, it is clearly a language designed by a wretched and miserable people. Spelling holds no bearing on pronunciation, each letter makes several different sounds without rhyme or reason, and there are no accent markings whatsoever. The letters "X" and "C" are completely redundant. Words that are spelled entirely differently (won, one) are pronounced the same, yet have different meanings. Other words are spelled virtually the same but pronounced in wildly different ways (tough, though, thought). And we wonder why people moving to our country can never seem to master the...
º Last Column: Cursing the Fates º more columns
Anyone who receives a decent volume of correspondence from the American public will be convinced of one of two things. One is that the American public is retarded. The other is that the English language is retarded. A small subset may conclude that both are true, which is a mean but highly defensible position.
Unless you live on the campus of a major American university, or are rich enough to never have to shop at Wal-Mart, it is a dangerous proposition to believe the bulk of humanity inherently stupid, because the only way off that cruise ship to hell is a Winchester round in the mouth. It is a far better thing to point your stupid-blaming finger elsewhere, and in the case of mainstream America's inability to compose a coherent sentence or spell "comeuppance," the ripest target for pointing is indeed our very stupid language.
As anyone learning English for the first time can attest, it is clearly a language designed by a wretched and miserable people. Spelling holds no bearing on pronunciation, each letter makes several different sounds without rhyme or reason, and there are no accent markings whatsoever. The letters "X" and "C" are completely redundant. Words that are spelled entirely differently (won, one) are pronounced the same, yet have different meanings. Other words are spelled virtually the same but pronounced in wildly different ways (tough, though, thought). And we wonder why people moving to our country can never seem to master the language or make a decent Burrito Supreme.
Why is this, when people the world over who have vastly inferior weapons-making technology to ours still have languages that work fine? How did we manage to screw the pooch so completely in this most basic of tasks? The answer is the English language's roots as a bastard tongue that was never intended to be taken seriously in the first place.
English originated in 600 AD when some guys who were stoned were fucking around, making up words, and it soon spread as a way for little girls to alienate their parents while they were having sleepover parties. In short, it was the Pig Latin of its day. Over the years, more people in the lower classes began to use the language, since it was seen as a cool and antiestablishment way to communicate, more "street" than the stuffy proper languages of Europe. For hundreds of years there was no proper spelling of any word in English, writers spelled everything any damned way they pleased, but eventually the fad grew too big and the squares found out about it.
One giant square, Richard "Big Dork" Mulcaster of London, took it upon himself to devise a standardized spelling of English words. The socially maladjusted Mulcaster sought to prove his intellectual superiority by arranging the spelling of words not phonetically, but rather by extrapolating their historical origins. This was precisely the kind of thing that got him his ass kicked daily back in school, and for good reason.
Mulcaster, a back-of-the-closet homosexual, was terrified of homophones (words pronounced the same), and this greatly influenced his spelling scheme. Thanks to Mulcaster, virtually any combination of letters in English can be pronounced any way the writer likes, to avoid the possibility of spelling two different words the same way and being exposed as gay.
Between 1066 and 1400, England was ruled by the Normans, an insane clan of men who all had the same first name. They demanded that everyone speak Norman French, the same half-assed dialect American tourists speak when visiting Europe. By the time Henry IV reclaimed England for the English in 1399, the only people who remembered the English language at all were hilariously senile, and their vague remembrances became the foundation for modern English. But even then the language was not done being molested: In the 1400's the printing press was invented, and printing presses were run only by foreign immigrants who didn't know constant exposure to lead-based inks gives you cancer. Since printers were paid by the line, they frequently padded out words with extra letters to make their layouts more visually pleasing and profitable. In time, these skylarkings became standard English spellings of words since nobody cared and it was raining all the time anyhow.
This hideous amalgam of modern spelling had become standardized by 1700, with the first dictionary appearing in 1755. Between 1750 and 1850 both Benjamin Franklin and Noah Webster attempted to make some sense of the English language, but in the end only succeeded in adding more words, including the noun "noat" for a midget-sized ark and the verb "franklin'" for being blown off a toilet in the middle of the night by a bolt of lightning.
Shorthand inventor Sir Isaac Pitman, drawn to spelling reform by the nonsensical spelling of his first name, developed the Phonotype alphabet in 1842, which succeeded in inspiring all manner of freaks to come out of the woodwork and develop their own alphabets. When the writer George Bernard Shaw died in 1950, one condition of his will was that a new English alphabet be developed in his name, which led to the creation of the Shaw-script, a hilarious new alphabet that looks exactly like a Word document accidentally converted into Wingdings.
Subsequent attempts at "fixing" the English alphabet have been dismal failures, since even simple spelling reform makes words look goofy, and anyone who's spent twenty years learning to spell English sort-of correctly isn't about to chuck all that just to make things easier on little kids and immigrants. And so, th status kwo of th Inglish layngwaj lumbrs forwrd unchaynjd, az it haz sins 1755. º Last Column: Cursing the Fatesº more columns
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|  October 28, 2002
Viking"When I was a young boy, no older than 24, my uncle asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He said "Sampson, I want you to touch me right here between my testicles until I tell you to stop."
My answer that day, as it always had been, was that I planned on being a Viking.
Most laughed when I gave this answer, the same way they laughed when I said I'd be the first man to ride a cheetah at the Indy 500. In retrospect, it looks like they got the last laugh on that second part, thanks to restrictive poaching laws that came into effect in the 1940's. But I never cared. "Let them laugh," I'd say to myself. "Maybe they'll laugh so long that I'm the only one who ducks for cover when we get bombed to death by the Chinese." This would make them laugh even harder, and from then on I resolved to think personal thoughts to myself, rather than speaking them aloud.
Most thought that I would eventually give up my dream of being a Viking, as I grew older and wiser in the ways of the world. Many would have bet money on it, had the Hartwig clan not been genetically incapable of winning a money wager. But they were, as was evidenced the year dad bet the family car and the rights to my brother Goose on "Fat Charlie" Walker taking home the gold in the 50-yard dash at the 1952 summer Olympics.
But I proved them all wrong in the autumn of 1961 when I showed up at Minnesota's training camp wearing a ceramic helmet I'd made myself and gave them...
º Last Column: Different º more columns
"When I was a young boy, no older than 24, my uncle asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He said "Sampson, I want you to touch me right here between my testicles until I tell you to stop."
My answer that day, as it always had been, was that I planned on being a Viking.
Most laughed when I gave this answer, the same way they laughed when I said I'd be the first man to ride a cheetah at the Indy 500. In retrospect, it looks like they got the last laugh on that second part, thanks to restrictive poaching laws that came into effect in the 1940's. But I never cared. "Let them laugh," I'd say to myself. "Maybe they'll laugh so long that I'm the only one who ducks for cover when we get bombed to death by the Chinese." This would make them laugh even harder, and from then on I resolved to think personal thoughts to myself, rather than speaking them aloud.
Most thought that I would eventually give up my dream of being a Viking, as I grew older and wiser in the ways of the world. Many would have bet money on it, had the Hartwig clan not been genetically incapable of winning a money wager. But they were, as was evidenced the year dad bet the family car and the rights to my brother Goose on "Fat Charlie" Walker taking home the gold in the 50-yard dash at the 1952 summer Olympics.
But I proved them all wrong in the autumn of 1961 when I showed up at Minnesota's training camp wearing a ceramic helmet I'd made myself and gave them the best ten minutes of my life, in an effort to make the team. I may have been driven into the ground like a tent peg, but it was still a dream come true and sweet redemption in the eyes of all the Hartwigs who had looked at Sampson L. Hartwig cockeyed for years.
Later I learned that everyone thought when I said 'Viking' that I meant the guys in the big boats with the horned hats and such, and I understood why they were laughing." º Last Column: Differentº more columns
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Quote of the Day“It is a wise man who makes a career of providing quotes, for the dollar-to-word ratio is fantastic. Eat your heart out, novelists.”
-Beenjammin Lynn-FrankFortune 500 CookieYou! In the yellow shirt! You’re going to have an awful week. Move along now. This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, but your lifetime ban from the municipal aquarium still applies. Those repressed childhood memories you’ve been having about animal abuse and a shady-looking construction site? That was Donkey Kong. Try eating something with at least 17 letters in it this week: mailboxes and Alpha-Bits don’t count. Your lucky dong accessories: ornaments, jingle bells, argyle cock sock, festive wreath, racing stripe, spare donut.
Try again later.Least Popular Internet Videos| 1. | Fat kid re-enacting his favorite scenes from Citizen Kane | | 2. | World of Warcraft online players expressing crippling loneliness they feel | | 3. | Totally hot chick in skirt does routine car maintenance | | 4. | Trailer for Julia Roberts' Mary Reilly 2 | | 5. | Manson gets one side of Rubik's Cube all red | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland Mcshyster 1/16/2006 Well hell to the "o," America, and welcome back to Entertain- ment Police. It’s a new year, we’re here and we’re queer, all except for the queer part. We here at Entertainment Police hope you had yourself a merry little whatever religion you are, and how. But now let’s waste no more time wasting time, and get to the new movie reviews!
Brokeback Mountin’
Perhaps it’s a sign of our oblivious times that Universal had to go so far out of their way to advertise Brokeback Mountin’ as a gay cowboy movie, including the ever-present "It’s a gay cowboy movie" t-shirts everyone has been wearing around town this month. I mean, come on. It’s called Brokeback Mountin’.
That’s the gayest movie name since… I lied; there’s...
Well hell to the "o," America, and welcome back to Entertain- ment Police. It’s a new year, we’re here and we’re queer, all except for the queer part. We here at Entertainment Police hope you had yourself a merry little whatever religion you are, and how. But now let’s waste no more time wasting time, and get to the new movie reviews!
Brokeback Mountin’
Perhaps it’s a sign of our oblivious times that Universal had to go so far out of their way to advertise Brokeback Mountin’ as a gay cowboy movie, including the ever-present "It’s a gay cowboy movie" t-shirts everyone has been wearing around town this month. I mean, come on. It’s called Brokeback Mountin’.
That’s the gayest movie name since… I lied; there’s never been a movie name anywhere near that gay before. Even the best runners-up, like Shaft and Backbeat, pale like a straight man watching gay cowboys in comparison. The people who needed this pointed out to them are the same people who were shocked to find out Liberace was gay, and who had their worlds rocked by the news that Elton John samples from both sides of the buffet.
But how was the movie? Do you even need to ask? Hands down, the best gay cowboy movie since the premature ejaculation masterpiece 8 Seconds.
Fun with Dick and Jane
Jane Fonda’s latest sex how-to video is the most depressing thing I’ve seen since her last one, See Jane Dick. What makes this one worse is I can’t figure out why they released it in the theaters. Not that the Olsen Twins’ low-rent VHS route to Hollywood isn’t well-worn, but I’m terrified by the image of a theater full of people trying to follow along with Jane’s on-screen instructions for copulation. Thankfully, I saw it in a theater full of movie critics, a group that by definition lost interest in sex long ago. But I’m worried about the rest of our non-movie-reviewing populace. There’s a time and a place for this kind of thing, people, and it’s in our schools, around the third grade.
Keen Kong
Everybody loves a hip giant monkey from the Far East in this latest rip-off of the Grape Ape cartoon. Sure, he knows karate, but will that even matter if he hasn’t got what it takes to make it in cutthroat Manhattan? I don’t know, because the fucking movie was twelve hours long. I’m not kidding, I had to go in the bathroom and change clothes in the middle. At one point I watched a whole other movie while I was taking a break from this one. No wonder the tickets cost more than Woodstock ’94.
I will say in the movie’s favor, however, that right before I left to get a haircut during the intermission, while they were letting the projector cool down, right before then there was one of the better dinosaur kung-fu scenes I’ve ever seen in a movie. That, and I must admit it was fun to run around the movie theater while it was closed overnight during the middle third of the movie.
The Lying Bitch in the Worn Robe
The first installment of comedian Lewis C.K.’s bitter epic has finally made it to the big screen, slathered in enormous amounts of CGI for no apparent reason. The end result isn’t as much fun as eating ice cream, but it’s not as bad as eating tofutti, either. It lands somewhere in the middle there.
That’s all he wrote, America. I hope you enjoyed the first EP of the new year, and that the tone it has set for 2006 is greatastic. Until next time, America, you’re one in a million. Which means, in the American population, you’re one in 297. That’s special.   |