|  | 
January 6, 2003 |
commune offices COMMUNE ART DEPT. Some of the newsmakers that helped make 2002 exactly 365 days long. 002 was a banner year for news. As long as the banner said, âBO-RING!â
Yes, as we reach the beginning of a brand new news year, we look back on 2002 with more than a slight Elvis sneer of derision, like a party guest finally leaving with a heavy hangover and leaving our sofa and rug stained with vomit. 2002 may go down in the history books as, âThe Year of ââŠAnywayâŠââ
Like a half-assed sitcom following Friends and preceding ER, much of 2002 felt squashed in-between two major news periods. Following hot on the heels of the events of Sept. 11th and the bombing of Afghanistan that heralded the War on Terror, things settled down into a dreary boredom in 2002 as Americans waited for big news events that still have yet to come...
002 was a banner year for news. As long as the banner said, âBO-RING!â Yes, as we reach the beginning of a brand new news year, we look back on 2002 with more than a slight Elvis sneer of derision, like a party guest finally leaving with a heavy hangover and leaving our sofa and rug stained with vomit. 2002 may go down in the history books as, âThe Year of ââŠAnywayâŠââ Like a half-assed sitcom following Friends and preceding ER, much of 2002 felt squashed in-between two major news periods. Following hot on the heels of the events of Sept. 11 th and the bombing of Afghanistan that heralded the War on Terror, things settled down into a dreary boredom in 2002 as Americans waited for big news events that still have yet to come—the bombing of Iraq, a resolution to the North Korea situation, and any evidence Osama bin Laden is alive or dead. All original and fascinating news is being greedily reserved by the newsmakers, as if theyâre holding out for a news sweeps week. Early 2002 was host to the Winter Olympics, the globally-conceded most boring of all Olympics, in the globally-conceded most boring state in the union, Utah. Thank whatever you call a God for the much-covered flap when ice-skating Canadians David Pelletier and Jamie SalĂ© were robbed of their rightful gold medal by a sly-footed French judge, or your only memories of it would be a gaggle of fruitcakes slapping a puck with a stick in the atrocity called âcurling.â Much of the early news year was limited to the images of Enronâs senior staff shrugging before a Senate sub-committee with a less-than-convincing âI dunno,â followed by footage of a shrapnel-filled site in downtown Israel as the violence that made the Middle East famous escalated to ludicrous heights, until an all-out assault on Yassir Arafatâs bunker broke the boredom very briefly. There was also Ray Brent Marsh, the Georgia crematorium owner who tossed the bodies in the lake and passed the savings on to you. Thanks to Marsh, along with multiple kidslaughter defendant Andrea Yates and the hockey dad who loved local sports a bit too much, the first few months of 2002 news were occasionally livened up by local heroes. An historical Oscar win for Best Actor and Best Actress by African-Americans Denzel Washington and Halle Berry helped draw attention away from the fact the Hollywood community now considers Opie the Best Director in its midst. Even the biggest celebrity murderer of the year was only former Little Rascal Robert Blake, leaving Court-TV to wait patiently for the shoplifting trial of Winona Ryder. Summer gave everyone a little hope for a brighter news year when nine miners faced certain doom, trapped in a mine shaft, and no one was happier when they were retrieved alive and healthy. Then the week ended and everyone went back to bitching about terrorism and the tumbling stock market. As the rate of insane presidential utterances concerning Iraq increased, Americans hit the peak of the news year when a series of sniper attacks across America finally put an end to superfluous Elvis coverage. However, it wasnât enough to save a pisser as a news year, and after the sniper suspects were arrested America quieted once again. Republicans received a boost from a record low-voter turnout off-year election and Trent Lottâs ill-conceived pro-segregationist remarks embarrassed the Bush administration, something that is truly hard to do. News pundits have a great case for 21 st century to be the most boring yet, but the commune news is quick to remind everyone 1901-1910 was a pretty crappy decade for news and the 20 th century didnât heat up until the sinking of the Titanic and World War I. We can make this one even better, just keep working at it. the commune news ushers in a brand new year, flashlight in hand, and making sure thereâs no kids ducked behind the seats. Ramrod Hurley is the commune Acting Editor and, we must say, quite an Acting Ass, too.
 | Study: Driving while on cell phone makes users look important
Bush shifts global warming argument to humidity debate
Virgin claims record loss; record was 45 of Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing
Anything can be microwaved instead of cooked, says lazy bastard
|
Lost Leaves Plotlines Half-Solved in Honor of Shooting Victims MySpace to Offer Breaking News on What Ira Mankovics is Doing Right Now Alec Baldwin Records Devastating Voice Mail Message for Shooter Sonys Poorly Timed PS3 Price Massacre Backfires |
|  |
 | 
 November 25, 2002
I Challenge You to a Race Around the WorldIt's clear you are as strong in your convictions as I am, Nuttley. It reminds me of the old parable/tale/cliché of the immovable object meets the irresistible force. Each of us is so well-matched in so many areas. A chess game or series of questions on 1980s television trivia would go on for centuries, or until one of us died, and would solve nothing for the time invested. It's high time we settled this dispute in the only way remaining: A race around the world!
If I could see your face, would I see fear in your eyes, Nuttley? I doubt very much your fearlessness in facing such a trial, even if I don't doubt your tenacity. The simple fact is, when I set the appointment to meet tomorrow morning in London at Big Ben, I can practically hear your nervous breath tremble at the thought. A race around the worldâis he mad? Yet I know you will be there, because despite the apparent insanity and recklessness of it all, you are both a man of your word and a man of fervor. You will be there tomorrow morning, because you know it is the only way to win our argument.
The rules will be simple, as previously established in the obscure chapter of Robert's Rules of Order for around-the-world races. Journey shall be over sea, air, or land through any available means, but you must go all the way around the world and establish your presence at the agreed-upon global markers. In short, it doesn't matter how you get there, but you must get there, Nuttley. I know...
º Last Column: Ode to the Debunker º more columns
It's clear you are as strong in your convictions as I am, Nuttley. It reminds me of the old parable/tale/cliché of the immovable object meets the irresistible force. Each of us is so well-matched in so many areas. A chess game or series of questions on 1980s television trivia would go on for centuries, or until one of us died, and would solve nothing for the time invested. It's high time we settled this dispute in the only way remaining: A race around the world!
If I could see your face, would I see fear in your eyes, Nuttley? I doubt very much your fearlessness in facing such a trial, even if I don't doubt your tenacity. The simple fact is, when I set the appointment to meet tomorrow morning in London at Big Ben, I can practically hear your nervous breath tremble at the thought. A race around the worldâis he mad? Yet I know you will be there, because despite the apparent insanity and recklessness of it all, you are both a man of your word and a man of fervor. You will be there tomorrow morning, because you know it is the only way to win our argument.
The rules will be simple, as previously established in the obscure chapter of Robert's Rules of Order for around-the-world races. Journey shall be over sea, air, or land through any available means, but you must go all the way around the world and establish your presence at the agreed-upon global markers. In short, it doesn't matter how you get there, but you must get there, Nuttley. I know you too well, though; you wouldn't cheat, it's beneath you. You won't find me beneath you eitherâI will be directly ahead! Ha!
You might expect me to take a plane all the way around the world, given my friend Danny Turrell has a pilot's license, but the thought doesn't appeal to me. Traveling by air alone might get me there first with little question, but taking the less paved path of boat and land travel would make victory all the sweeter once it's in my hand. I'm not ruling out a short sally in a hot-air balloon, mind you, but if you expect me to flutter on gossamer wings rather than plant shoed feet on firm ground, you're sadly mistaken.
We shall carry only that which fits on our back, Nuttley, eat when we can catch food, drink when we can lay hands on water. It is a test of will as much as speed, endurance as much as swiftness. Of character even more than rate of travel. The exact mathematical formula is C=d (s X w+E) I think, but you'll have to check with a mathematician. I'm a raconteur.
Don't even ask to bring along your girlfriend, or even your pot-belly pig; no race around the world has ever been a family affair. The solitude of those moments as you bicycle toward the end of the Asian continent are the importance of the experience. The loneliness of the vast open sea as you search desperately for fish to eat and fresh water to drink crossing the Pacific ocean. I wouldn't deprive you of that, Nuttley, and wouldn't allow you to deprive yourself either.
We're agreed, I assume, to meet tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time in London, at the base of Big Ben, where large crowds of friends, well-wishers, and the simply curious will gather in droves to see us off. They'll think us mad, I'm sure; I couldn't deny the possibility they're right. It will be a rigorous test of character, one we'll both be better off for. But once I winâand I will winâthere will be none of these petty arguments ever again, and I'll prove the Cure is and always has been a better band than Echo and the Bunnymen º Last Column: Ode to the Debunkerº more columns
| 
|  August 19, 2002
Herman's Hermits: Your Dad's Got Crabs, EddieWhat kind of noise does your brain make when you think? A hum? A whir? I've come to believe that mine's more of a rattle and frankly, this week that's got me concerned.
What could be rattling around up there? Loose juices? Snot? Who can say? For all I know there could even be a little matchbox car up there from when I was a kid. I'm not saying I remember ever sticking one up there, but like most people of my generation, I took a lassaiez-faire attitude toward toddlerdom that I've since come to regret. Who kept records of that kind of thing back then? Shit, I could have a juice cup up there.
You ever get tired of arguing with someone who's already made their mind up about something? I do. Take my friend Dave, for example. Gay as a floral-patterned thong. Only he doesn't think so. Dude just doesn't want to listen to reason, while even Kansas housewives know that only gay guys part their hair like that. Some people just like to argue for the sake of being assholes, but you mark my words. One day he'll out-gay us all.
Another thing: as far as I'm concerned, we won the Revolutionary war. America. Hands down, forget about it. Some people may like to waste your time with their nit-picking and armchair quarterbacking of the situation, but tell 'em to go piss up their hipwaders. America 1, New England, 0. End of discussion.
You ever notice how, in a noisy environment, the number 406 sounds just like "oral sex"? In other news, I...
º Last Column: Crapping Out Like a Vegas Fat Man º more columns
What kind of noise does your brain make when you think? A hum? A whir? I've come to believe that mine's more of a rattle and frankly, this week that's got me concerned.
What could be rattling around up there? Loose juices? Snot? Who can say? For all I know there could even be a little matchbox car up there from when I was a kid. I'm not saying I remember ever sticking one up there, but like most people of my generation, I took a lassaiez-faire attitude toward toddlerdom that I've since come to regret. Who kept records of that kind of thing back then? Shit, I could have a juice cup up there.
You ever get tired of arguing with someone who's already made their mind up about something? I do. Take my friend Dave, for example. Gay as a floral-patterned thong. Only he doesn't think so. Dude just doesn't want to listen to reason, while even Kansas housewives know that only gay guys part their hair like that. Some people just like to argue for the sake of being assholes, but you mark my words. One day he'll out-gay us all.
Another thing: as far as I'm concerned, we won the Revolutionary war. America. Hands down, forget about it. Some people may like to waste your time with their nit-picking and armchair quarterbacking of the situation, but tell 'em to go piss up their hipwaders. America 1, New England, 0. End of discussion.
You ever notice how, in a noisy environment, the number 406 sounds just like "oral sex"? In other news, I think the drive-up ATM is going to have to satisfy all of my banking needs for a while. At least until a certain prudish bank teller who never heard the story of "Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Open-Hand Slapped in Public" gets transferred to Siberia or wherever they send the girls who turn down the promotion-for-sex deals you're always hearing about in men's magazines.
Which is a bummer, since I've never been totally comfortable with the whole ATM concept. You just know there's some sick shmo out there running around in the middle of the night, wiping his ass on ATM keypads. There are just too many people out there for it not to be true. It may sound like something I'm just making up to fill column space, but it really is true, I actually shared a cab with the guy. Longest six blocks of my life, we had to keep stopping every time he saw an ATM or a pay phone.
I'm thinking of pitching NBC a sitcom idea I had based on a joke I heard in a bar one time. In the joke, this taxi cab driver picks up two naked guys and a naked girl at the airport. When they get to their destination, the cabbie turns around and, with a glance, realizes that obviously none of them could be carrying any money. The woman cups her breasts in her hands and arches her eyebrow, asking "Will these do?" The cabbie nods and she climbs in the front seat and they do the deed. The woman gets out of the cab, and then the cabbie turns to the two naked guys in the back seat and says the punchline, which I can never remember.
But I think it would be a funny show to have these three naked people traveling all over the world, doing funny things to get by without any money. There wouldn't be any explanation of why they were naked, of course, since that would probably get complicated and make it less funny. º Last Column: Crapping Out Like a Vegas Fat Manº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“If you love someone, set them free. If they do not return, then you were stupid for following my advice.”
-Bachard RichmanFortune 500 CookieDon't blame anyone else for your own problems, blame EVERYONE else. Try a new deodorant this week, your friends agree the theoretical kind hasn't been cutting it. You will meet a small armadillo that will teach you arithmetic, but few will buy that story at the trial. This week's lucky karate moves: The Iron Ostrich, Yun-Wi's Forceful Throat Massage, Western Ballsack Slap, and The Forbidden Tongue Stomp of Zi-Zi Tohp.
Try again later.Top Pants-Missing Explanations| 1. | Busted out Hulk-style | | 2. | Told one lie too many | | 3. | Busted out Louie Anderson-style | | 4. | What, aren't you hot? | | 5. | Talked out of them by gay Casanova | | 6. | Made ass look big | | 7. | Donated to killer mandroid from future | | 8. | Realized parachute pants went out of style in 1986 | | 9. | Sat in ham | | 10. | You kidding? Pants are so 2002 | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Howie Dudat 4/30/2007 Space Gods: The New Generation"Captain's blog, Stardate eleven point six point forty-three point twelve point three-thousand," the captain typed out loud for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. "We have drifted far off course due to our Conn, walking GoBot Mister Matrix, forgetting to turn on the autopilot when he got off shift last night, so excited was he to hit the ship's bar, The Watering Hall, before the end of Happy Hour. And so, we find ourselves deep in Romann space, desperate to find our way back to Planet Club territory without drawing the attention of our sworn enemies."
"Captain on the brink!" announced Mister Matrix, in that funny way he had, as the captain entered the bridge.
"At ease," the captain announced to everyone, all of whom were already taking it pretty...
"Captain's blog, Stardate eleven point six point forty-three point twelve point three-thousand," the captain typed out loud for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. "We have drifted far off course due to our Conn, walking GoBot Mister Matrix, forgetting to turn on the autopilot when he got off shift last night, so excited was he to hit the ship's bar, The Watering Hall, before the end of Happy Hour. And so, we find ourselves deep in Romann space, desperate to find our way back to Planet Club territory without drawing the attention of our sworn enemies." "Captain on the brink!" announced Mister Matrix, in that funny way he had, as the captain entered the bridge. "At ease," the captain announced to everyone, all of whom were already taking it pretty easy. "Mister Matrix, what is our current heading?" "We are headed toward the HEPA quadrant at a heading of 'Hauling Balls' sir, as per your orders," answered the well-hung android Mister Matrix, who looked exactly like a human except for his boxy metallic body and accordion-like arms. "Very well, Mister Matrix," the captain approved. "What is the status of the crew, Miss Mude?" "The crew is very irritable, captain," ship's counselor and purported empath Cherilynn Mude replied. "This is not a good time to bother the crew." "Are you sure it's not just the⊠crew's time of the month, counselor?" the captain inquired. "Don't start with that shit, sir," Mude ended the discussion. Suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, a Romann ship materialized on the viewscreen. It resembled a frigate from Earth's eighteenth century, only the sails were black for space camouflage. "E-zounds!" shouted the captain. "It's aâŠ" the captain paused and waited patiently. "A Romann warship, captain," lietenant Dorn added, finally. "Exactly," confirmed the captain. "Open a shouting channel." "BOOP" said lieutenant Dorn, pressing a button. "Romann bird of prey, I am Captain Pepe LeBlanc," announced the captain. "Of the Planet Club's Elantra." As if in response, the Romanns fired their space catapult, peppering the Elantra with big-assed space rocks. "Damage report!" shouted the captain, seemingly to himself. "Casualties on decks nine and forty-seven," Security Chief Dorn answered. "And an ensign on deck eight has a snuggy." "A snuggy?" the captain queried. "Yes, sir. That's when the crack of one's ass is invaded by underwear." "Oooh!" cringed the captain. "I hate that! Dispatch an emergency medical team at once!" "Aye-aye, captain." Dorn answered. "And see the speech therapist on deck ninety-six about that stuttering problem, lieutenant," the captain finished. "âŠ" Dorn replied. "All hands to battle stations! Ready the electric torpedoes, Mister Dorn. Lock onto the Romann warbird. Aaaand⊠Hold up! Gotta take a piss!" the captain announced, jogging off to a special room off the bridge where the crew's waste was transported out of their bodies and into Romann space. "Okay, back!" the captain returned. "Where were we? Oh, right. Fire at will!" At which point the Security Officer Dorn shot first mate Will Ferrill at point blank range with his phaser, cutting Ferrill in half. "Woah! Holy space-fuck!" shouted the captain. "The Romanns, Dorn, the Romanns! And somebody get a swifter in here to take care of number one. I'll be right back, I need to take care of number two," and the captain once again disappeared into the shit room.   |