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 April 19, 2004 |
indings of the 9-11 Commission distressed many in the government and law enforcement agencies this week, with media attention quickly turning to allegations more could have been done to prevent the tragedies. Some were alarmed at revelations the CIA had information about Al-Qaedaâs plan to use airplanes as weapons as early as 1995. More troubling, the twenty-first century disaster had been predicted as far back as the sixteenth century.
The question has been raised amidst the report: Could intelligence from Nostradamus have prevented 9-11?
Some, and not just stoners, are saying yes. Michel Nostradamus first released his information on the disasters in the sixteenth century, in his usual reporting style of quatrains and vague language. Still, little confusio...
indings of the 9-11 Commission distressed many in the government and law enforcement agencies this week, with media attention quickly turning to allegations more could have been done to prevent the tragedies. Some were alarmed at revelations the CIA had information about Al-Qaedaâs plan to use airplanes as weapons as early as 1995. More troubling, the twenty-first century disaster had been predicted as far back as the sixteenth century.
The question has been raised amidst the report: Could intelligence from Nostradamus have prevented 9-11?
Some, and not just stoners, are saying yes. Michel Nostradamus first released his information on the disasters in the sixteenth century, in his usual reporting style of quatrains and vague language. Still, little confusion could come from the prophetic announcement that âThe sky will burn at forty-five degrees latitude, / Fire approaches the great new city / Immediately a huge, scattered flame leaps up / When they want to have verification from the Normans.â The Commission interviewed several experts on the sixteenth century seer and what exactly the government knew at the time of the prophecy.
âIâm extremely dismayed,â said some senator on the panel, âto think we had this information nearly five hundred years ago and still couldnât respond appropriately.â
Interviewed by the Commission was Nostradamus expert Professor Paul Fischer, from New York Universityâs Humanities Department. In fact, Fischer is regarded by some not so much an expert on Nostradamus as one of the few people who knew anything about Nostradamusâ work and had Sunday off to testify.
âThere are numerous reasons why the âNostradamus intelligenceâ proved insufficient to react to the Al-Qaeda problem,â said Fischer, before the Commission. âFor one, the language of the prophecy is non-specific and did not really offer a date the attacks would happen. Secondly, a probable one-hundred year lapse came between the announcement of the prophecy and its translation into English, and even then there is no exact record for when it came to the attention of anyone in America. And thirdly, the United States would not come into existence as a government for another hundred years after that, and at the time did not have a bureau of intelligence. But if this Commission is determined to find someone of the era to blame, letâs just say King of England Charles II for the sake of getting this whole thing done with.â
The Commission then proposed Charles II be called upon to publicly testify to what he knew about terrorism during his administration, or reign, and faced minor embarrassment when a Senate page informed them the Merry Monarch has been deceased since 1685.
Speaking on a condition of detailed notoriety, Sen. Bill Willey expressed dismay at the Commissionâs exoneration of Charles II and pre-revolutionary intelligence groups.
âFrankly, Iâm not convinced all was done to prevent the horrors of September eleven,â said Sen. Willey, on Larry King Live. âThe world around us changed in ways we never could have imagined on that dark day. It seems inconceivable someone could not have seen it coming and taken the Al-Qaeda threat seriously.â the commune news foresaw the coming of that movie about a gay Hitler after reading Movie Source magazine, but nobody calls us seers. Lil Duncan had a 50/50 rate of predicting any comings, but the less said about that the better.
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Iraqi prison abuses allegedly part of inter-prison frat initiations
Guy at next table eating salt right out of shaker
Gold, shotguns, ammunition, fallout shelters all make strong showings
Police: Sasser author quiet type, loner; basic computer geek
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Conservative Woman Found he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called right-wing woman is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, shes completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks. The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel. Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings he new television season barely underway, Fox executives are already lamenting the low ratings for their most calculated new show of the season, Desperate Alien Prison Escape. We dont understand it, lamented stunned network executive Roger Bacon. This show capitalized on every hot trend currently on TV. We even had swearing. It should have been the biggest hit of all time. Fuck. Foxs latest ratings hopeful follows the travails of Juk, a member of a secret alien invasion conspiracy who intentionally gets arrested for sleeping with a bored suburban housewife in order to help his cousin escape from jail, using a detailed map he had tattooed on his scrotum, which due to his alien anatomy is located where a human beings eyelids would be. Female Sex Patch Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough |
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 May 13, 2002
Lindsay Wagner Wants Me DeadBefore you say I'm paranoid, or a skank, like some have said before, hear me out. It's a crazy story, but it's true. Scarily true. Lindsay Wagner is trying to kill me.
That's right, the Bionic Woman herself. If you think I'm delusional you've obviously never been woken up at four in the morning by the pound of glass breaking with a bionic shatter. This is what happened to me yesterday.
I was just minding my own businessâI don't know what the hell else you expect me to be doing at four in the morning with Shenanigan's closed. I was resting peacefully after turning in early at 2 when I heard a window shattering, slow-motion like. I jumped out of bed and yelled I had herpes, I was nervous and figured the intruder would know I didn't have a gun. But by the time I could make a bomb from baking powder to defend myself, the assailant was gone. Bionically gone!
At the time I didn't put two and two together, but eventually I did, and came up with six.
Lindsay Wagner has been a Hollywood staple or some kind of paper binding instrument since the 70s, and sunken into the entertainment trenches little by little over the years in order to avoid the infomercial truck stop on the way to oblivion. She's been fortunate, finding success on the Lifetime channel doing movies for a female audience with indiscriminate tastes. Wagner alone was the unchallenged Lifetime diseased abused murderer mother star for years. Until now.
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Before you say I'm paranoid, or a skank, like some have said before, hear me out. It's a crazy story, but it's true. Scarily true. Lindsay Wagner is trying to kill me.
That's right, the Bionic Woman herself. If you think I'm delusional you've obviously never been woken up at four in the morning by the pound of glass breaking with a bionic shatter. This is what happened to me yesterday.
I was just minding my own businessâI don't know what the hell else you expect me to be doing at four in the morning with Shenanigan's closed. I was resting peacefully after turning in early at 2 when I heard a window shattering, slow-motion like. I jumped out of bed and yelled I had herpes, I was nervous and figured the intruder would know I didn't have a gun. But by the time I could make a bomb from baking powder to defend myself, the assailant was gone. Bionically gone!
At the time I didn't put two and two together, but eventually I did, and came up with six.
Lindsay Wagner has been a Hollywood staple or some kind of paper binding instrument since the 70s, and sunken into the entertainment trenches little by little over the years in order to avoid the infomercial truck stop on the way to oblivion. She's been fortunate, finding success on the Lifetime channel doing movies for a female audience with indiscriminate tastes. Wagner alone was the unchallenged Lifetime diseased abused murderer mother star for years. Until now.
That's right, I've recently thrown my feathered hat into the ring and called it macaroni. Clarissa Coleman has been storming the Lifetime auditions and making a lasting impression on the men who run that women's network. I'm so close to getting a lead role I can taste it, and it tastes like chicken.
I haven't received any official notice yet, but I think with these attempts on my life it's pretty clear someone feels threatened. That someone has to be Lindsay Wagner. Who else could get up to my window and smash it with the rock I found lying amongst the broken glass? I have no fire escape, which all my neighbors and firemen tell me will surely be my death in the event of a fire. But fire is the least of my problems right now, with no fire in my apartment. I'm more worried about the Bionic bitch murdering me in my sleep.
I parked my car illegally the other day and was on my way into the commune offices when I heard a familiar "sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh" sound like bionic jumping. At first I thought it was the man in the hockey mask and butcher knife getting out of the car parked next to mine, until I realized that was just commune reporter Ted Ted once again pushing the boundaries of the casual Friday policy. Apparently I had missed the Bionic Woman as she leapt out of sight, her plot to kill me foiled by Ted Ted's inappropriate office wear.
I suppose we'll see soon. I'm flying out to L.A. this weekend to audition for The Pursuit of Skinniness: The Carla Dupree Story. How bad does Lindsay Wagner fear the competition? Would she actually take out an entire planeload of people with her bionic abilities? I guess we'll find out.
If nothing else, I figure I've got a fantastic story to write for Lifetime for me to star in. It's a win-win-or-die situation. º Last Column: ome, Come to Jamaica!º more columns
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|  November 26, 2001
There's A Bustle in My HedgerowI have to admit, a few years ago the sound of a bustle in my hedgerow would have left me terrified. I was naĂŻve, to say the least, and suffer a fear of mortality like anybody else. At least that's what my new houseguest said, and that's when I became aware what there was to fear, whilst before I suspected the sound might be a bear or some kind of Jack the Ripper fan intent on re-creating the crimes in vivid detail, only with men this time instead of trollops.
Likewise when I heard the whistle of the pied piper calling through the crack'd window in my den, at the time I kept running to the kitchen to see who left tea boiling on the stove top. This was before my new friend Jimmy Page came to stay with us.
Page is an insightful limey, you have to give him that. Before he showed up to stay with us I was scared of silly things, like the possibilities of violent crime, chemical terrorism, nuclear annihilation, all of these highly unlikely possibilities. Jimmy opened my eyes to the existence of dragons, mythical knights, multi-headed beasts from fables, and dark wizards who can destroy you with a handful of powder. And I've seen the powder that he travels with so I know he's not kidding.
Laughing trees, talking spirits, and some big pushy bitch he calls "the May Queen"--Mr. Page inhabits a very scarey world, folks, and he's welcomed me into it. Hence I've decided that, as enjoyable as his company is, I have to find a way to kick him out. I...
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I have to admit, a few years ago the sound of a bustle in my hedgerow would have left me terrified. I was naĂŻve, to say the least, and suffer a fear of mortality like anybody else. At least that's what my new houseguest said, and that's when I became aware what there was to fear, whilst before I suspected the sound might be a bear or some kind of Jack the Ripper fan intent on re-creating the crimes in vivid detail, only with men this time instead of trollops.
Likewise when I heard the whistle of the pied piper calling through the crack'd window in my den, at the time I kept running to the kitchen to see who left tea boiling on the stove top. This was before my new friend Jimmy Page came to stay with us.
Page is an insightful limey, you have to give him that. Before he showed up to stay with us I was scared of silly things, like the possibilities of violent crime, chemical terrorism, nuclear annihilation, all of these highly unlikely possibilities. Jimmy opened my eyes to the existence of dragons, mythical knights, multi-headed beasts from fables, and dark wizards who can destroy you with a handful of powder. And I've seen the powder that he travels with so I know he's not kidding.
Laughing trees, talking spirits, and some big pushy bitch he calls "the May Queen"--Mr. Page inhabits a very scarey world, folks, and he's welcomed me into it. Hence I've decided that, as enjoyable as his company is, I have to find a way to kick him out. I simply cannot continue going to work each day like the world is a normal place when I know there's half-goat demons out there who dance before me in the street on my way to work. And I can't hit them with the Volkswagen, either, they can float and dance on my hood with their cloven hooves. There's several of them in those commune offices I work at, too. I've never noticed before now that Ted Ted fellow is even smaller than me. Makes you wonder. Wonder? I meant terrified.
I'm not sure the exact length of time Jimmy Page is planning on staying. I wouldn't feel right asking him to leave, I'm all too aware of that magic dust in his suitcase. I've asked him how long he'll be around and he assures me he is bound for an otherworld, though I'm not sure where that is or I'd buy him a ticket already. He's mentioned something about a stairway of some kind, I'm unclear as to how tall it needs to be or where he wants it built, but I figure if I buy a tall enough stepladder it might make do in a pinch.
In the end, I'll probably get rid of him the same way I got rid of Donovan during his long stay in the late '60s: I'll move to the roof for a few days. We have a spare bedroom up there, hidden away from those unfamiliar with the house, and in times of houseguests myself, Arvelyn, and our cat Makeshift can squeeze in there comfortably for a long space of time, until our houseguest goes out for food or something and we change the locks. We've thus far managed to outlast every houseguest, although I must admit there were a number of doubtful moments where we worried that guy from The Commish was going to win in the end.
Not that there won't be a down side to Mr. Page's exit; the next time there is a bustle in my hedgerow, I'll undoubtedly be alarmed then. I'll soon forget about the pied pipers and May Queens. Though I've always known all that glitters isn't gold. Most of the time it's just glitter. Glitter glitters, you know. º Last Column: A Blow Has Been Struck to the Nards of Justiceº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores... uh, on second thought, scratch that. If I can pick, don't give me any losers.”
-Emily DickinsomeFortune 500 CookieGive up the ghost this weekâeverybody knows you're drawing those eyebrows on with a magic marker. You may only be a gigolo, but that doesn't mean anybody wants to hear you sing about it. Try naming a constellation after yourself: it worked for that "Chantilly Lace" guy. This week's lucky pets: salamander, ostrich, rutabaga, cow fetus, bottle of deadly germs.
Try again later.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 11/18/2011 I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and itâs far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Managerâs position at Hardeeâs for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So letâs get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for...
I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and itâs far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Managerâs position at Hardeeâs for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So letâs get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for all the movies you made hits in the years since I last wrote.
Transformers (2007)
In the words of the great John F. Kennedy: Come on, America. We can do better than this. The Hollywood blockbuster has been boiled down to its basics, and its shiny robots, automatons, beating the shit out of each other in the middle of a city. Director of Godzilla, Roland Emmerich, reportedly watched this film and apologized to the world. There is not a single human anywhere on screen in this entire film. That Megan Fox Real Doll is not even convincing, though yes, I would strangle the fleshy giraffe watching her bend and writhe around a hot rod, if only I could stomach cars and my movie-viewing room at work had a lock on it. The only thing more nauseating than the dialogue is seeing an animatronic Pirate of the Caribbean feature that looks uncannily like talented actor John Turturro speaking it. I donât know what he got paid to license his image to this cinematic holocaust, but Iâm sure dignity cannot be bought with the fee. Did I mention they made two more of them? If my will was law, everyone leaving the theater would have been sterilized and the films would have at least done some good to the world.
The Dark Knight (2008)
After Batman Began, he decided to start talking like the worldâs worst Fat Albert impression. Christian "Bail Me Out, You Fucking Bitch, Mom" stars as the titular hero, who either has throat cancer or has trouble speaking plainly with tight leather wrapped around his throat. If I remember correctly, Heath Ledger acted so well in this film it killed him, but most of it amounts to wisecracks and doing a McLovin voice all the way through the film. The plot is convoluted and involves more characters than a season of Deadwood, and the action sequences would have been far more enjoyable if they had decided to light them. But in the end, the film makes a great statement: Sequels work best when they raise expectations to unrealistic degrees, making the third film an inevitable stinkbomb.
Avatar (2009)
I donât go to see 3D films. Iâm less worried about the damage to the eyes or the high cost of tickets and more frightened that itâs all a ruse to take pictures of an audience full of idiots sitting in the dark and watching a $12 movie while wearing sunglasses. Has the wonder of 3D ever lasted past the 20-minute mark? I wouldnât know. Thankfully, Titanic auteur James Cameron squeezed every drop of wonder out of this film in the script stage. A paralyzed Kevin Costner finds a tribe of very tall Smurfs and becomes one of them, and though heâs pulled by conflicting loyalties for a solid three minutes of screen time, he sides with the primitive but lovable Land Gungans and Wesa all happy by the end of this tired yarn. Cameron thought about removing all the people in this one, they didnât quite look real next to the CGI animation, but he remembered the last time a director did that they called it Transformers, and the critics burned it to send it to hell. This one was a bigger success, despite its lack of sinking ships and a dastardly lifeboat-stealing Billy Zane. Spoiler alert: Everybody wins and is happy in the end. Oops, gave away the ending.
Inception (2010)
Based on the novel Huh? by WTF. Batmastermind Christopher Nolan takes on the world of dreams in a fast-paced mind-blowing adventure epic that wowed critics and audiences alike. The only problem is it seems Nolan has never had a dream and never bothered to write a plot anyone could understand. What might have been a daring, big-budget exploration of dreamscapes and the psyche boils down to a bunch of car chases and people getting shot. I have always prided myself on telling when the Emperor has no clothes, and this oneâs sack is dangling in the wind, people. Dreams are not as depicted in the movie, these vast landscapes where youâre chased by organized subconscious thoughts and doing gravity-free Kung Fu on other badasses. If Nolan had been honest, the plot would have been Di Caprio driving a Hyundai around inside a Home Depot looking for a place thatâs open to buy French fries, and then they stop at a P.F. Chiangâs, which doesnât normally serve French fries but for some reason they have them, only the French fries turn into hush puppies halfway through eating them, and Avery Brooks is a sukiyaki chef, then before heâs finished cooking Di Caprio finds theyâre all on Deep Space 9 and the Crest Cavity Creeps are attacking. Then he wakes up. That would have gotten you the Oscar, Mr. Nolan, instead of losing to some stuttering fey king.
Those were the biggest moneymakers since I last wrote. Donât blame me, Americaâblame yourselves. If you donât apologize before I write again, I may decide to take on your Oscar winners. I dare you to give me a shot at Slumdog Millionaire. I dare you.   |
