ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby's indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories.

Libby, called "Scooter" by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson's wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived.

As soon as news of the Libby indictment, a potentially president-destroying story, was announced, the Cheney Chief of Staff resigned and the White House began its onslaught of less important announcements, starting with the retraction of Supreme Court nominee Harriet Miers, the nomination of mini-Scalia Samuel Alito, and more news from the clusterfuck in the Middle East that is Iraq. To seal the deal and firmly erase the recent memory of criminal charges against White House staff, the president released a string of obscene and bizarre comments guaranteed to push the story off the page—covered elsewhere in this edition of the commune.

Democrats and White House insiders alike were surprised by the effectiveness of the Bush administration's "Operation: Bury the Story."

DNC strategist Michael Fallusmore: "Damn, but they did it good. We were a little busy basking in the glee of what should have been a catastrophe for the Bush-ites and GOP. Then we woke the next morning and couldn't find a trace of it anywhere. The news media were suddenly much more interested in the predictable choice of a conservative white guy for the Supreme Court. Real shockaroo there. But still, you have to give them credit for weaseling out of the unweaselable. I guess all we can do now is hope some reporter finds that dead hooker in Karl Rove's Toyota."

An inside source at the White House, some Bush college buddy whose phone we tapped, agreed with the quick removal of the story.

"I totally can't believe it worked," said the source, then giggled as he did a line of blow. "I suppose it would have been a hard uphill battle if all the major media outlets hadn't bought into the importance of these other routine stories and decided to shrug off the boring details of criminal and possibly treasonous behavior inside the walls of the highest pockets of U.S Government. What? Yeah, I'm completely wasted, so what? I always talk like that."

The president did his part as leader of his party and platform to diminish the importance of the story to the news media and the American people, by dressing in ugly suits, appearing as unphotogenic as possible, and keeping his comments quite limited to make for lousy B-roll for the visually oriented media outlets. Bush responded Thursday to Libby's plea of not guilty to the charges.

"Yep, yep," said the president, quickly shuffling off to a birthday party of a friend being held at a Washington, D.C. Chuck E. Cheese.

Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again

Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans

Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits”

Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split

There comes a time in every man's life when he must become a man. Except for Pee Wee Herman or Michael Jackson. (Owing to weirdness.) Or Gary Coleman, owing to shortness. Or unless he becomes a woman first, like RuPaul. But everybody else: eventually you've got to pony up. And Omar Bricks' pony is here.

How do I know? Read the tee-shirt, bitch.

Some misguided fucknuts actually consider home ownership to be the tell-tale sign of adulthood, but you and I know better than that. After-all, the King of China has a million palaces and he's only like five. Or if you need an example that hits closer to home, think of the Olsen Twins, or that kid from War of the Worlds. I'm sure they've all got houses, and probably in the same neighborhood. Which would suck if you live in that area, since your neighbors never mow their lawn or take out the trash, and just want to play with LEGOs all day. Which is a complaint several of my neighbors have levied against yours truly, sure, but I'd like to see some kid invent an air cannon to shoot his garbage over his house and into his neighbor Mitch's back yard, which is where that mountain came from that Mitch skis on in the winter.

No, an adult isn't made by the things he owns: not a house, not a dog, and most definitely not a car he borrowed from some bank robbers in Panama. An adult is made by whether or not other people think he's an adult, and Omar Bricks now owns a shirt that says ADULT on it in big, red letters, ending all previous debate on the subject.

Don't ask me where it came from, or what I was doing before I woke up wearing this shirt. If you know the answer, send me an email, because I'm curious myself. If it involved daycare in any way, then fuck that, don't tell me any boring stories. Make something up about alien abduction and we'll both be happier. I'd much rather think I woke up in a Starbucks bathroom with pissed pants wearing an alien sorter tee-shirt than to think I've been moonlighting at some daycare clinic that has a hard time distinguishing the staff from the patients.

I've been wearing the shirt for six days straight now, but don't worry, it's been in the shower with me a few times in that span, so it's not as if the thing smells like crotch snot. To be honest, I just haven't been able to bring myself to wear a different shirt since everyone's reaction to this one has been too entertaining to pass up for a single day, even if my "GIRLS DO IT" shirt has been feeling a little lonely this week.

Oh, and just for the record, the powers-that-be here at the commune wanted me to tie-in some product placement to this week's column, so I'm supposed to mention that the commune's official tee-shirt, that black one that just says "THE INTERNET" on the front in white letters, is back in stock. They got some more after the Crochet! staff bought out all the old ones to use as diapers for that children's hospital they were supporting. Oh, and while I'm at it with the tie-ins, that new four-meat breakfast sandwich from Burger King is pretty choice as well, just don't wipe your hands on your commune shirt while you're eating it or else you're going to look like a serial killer the next time you go into one of those black-light midnight bowling joints.

Anyway, the reactions to my "ADULT" shirt have been uniformly hilarious, and a lot more fun than the flack I caught over my infamous "Tits Ahoy!" tee a few years back. My favorite so far has been Rok Finger's, since The Rok actually believed me when I told him this shirt was from that Pakistani video store, Movie Muff, around the corner from the commune offices. I told him they had a whole special room in the back where they kept the movies for adults, instead of the English Patient/Grinch/Patrick Swayze bullshit for kids they stock the rest of the store with. Finger left immediately to check it out, since for some reason he's been rooting around for a copy of My Giant to rent for years, and didn't realize he'd been shopping in the non-adult section this whole time. Though my hunch is he ended up with some weird Middle-Eastern fetish porn instead, since he hasn't been back to work for three days.

As for Omar Bricks, I'll be spending the rest of my week crocking up more hilarious shirt explanations to sell to momos on the street, as well as putting in some more work on my plan for a matching car decal, possibly wreathed in blue flames. Bricks out.

º Last Column: God's Hands
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Dear commune:

Why won’t the commune publish my columns? Sure, I may not be popular like Emil Zender, or possess the mouth-wateringly luscious honeydews of an Ella Dipthong, but I’m okay in the sack. At least I imagine, I’ve never done it with myself. Not for lack of trying. But anyway, what about the columns? You guys got the picture I sent, right? It’s not me, but she’s pretty goodlooking, no? I’d look at that picture while pretending to read a column, for sure. I don’t know what the problem is; I’m beginning to think the commune is a prejudiced organization. Prejudiced against the Calvin Hotbarns of the world, that is. You guys probably could have got away with it if you’d been careful enough to run the occasional column by one of the other Calvin Hotbarns out there, just for appearances, but you cocky fucks had to go and rub our faces in it by publishing your all-Calvin-Hotbarn-free content all the time. You guys suck. I wouldn’t read your site even if it was publishing my columns. But I bet a lot of people would. So you should probably still run them some time.

Love,

Calvin Hotbarn
Roadthroat, VT

Dear Calvin:

In order for the commune to run a column, it needs to be a bit more fleshed out than a sheet of carbon paper scribbled with "Big opening" "Witty anecdote" and "Some shit about the trade deficit." We here at the commune have enough on our hands without having to do your goddamned job for you, dickweave.

the commune

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Dear commune:

Hey, you commune guys got any ideas what I can do with my Rob? By that you know I mean the R.O.B. (Robotic Operating Buddy) from my old Nintendo Entertainment System. I got one of the first ones to come out, when I was a kid, and back then instead of a light gun and Duck Hunt or whatever they gave you this little robot that helped you play the games. Maybe they hadn’t invented the light gun yet and were worried about complaints if kids were shooting TVs with real guns or something, or maybe they had to straighten out some kind of ducks’ rights lawsuit or something first. But whatever the reason, mine came with this robot thing that moves a gyroscope from one place to one other place. It’s pretty sweet for playing Gyromite or Stack-Up, but I don’t think those Nintendo guys were looking too far into the future when they planned like zero additional functionality for this thing. It’s not really any good for any other games or anything. I thought it might be able to help me with my taxes, because I’m shit at that stuff and robots are hella smart. But not this joker, he just plays with that goddamned gyroscope all day. Then I thought maybe he could answer yes/no questions like a Ouija board using the gyroscope, but he’s shit at that too and I think now I’ve pissed off the undead. I’m about out of ideas, what do you guys think?

Todd A. Preston
Whiteman, GA


Dear Todd:

It seems you’ve clearly failed to learn the lesson of the 80’s, Todd. Undocumented migrant workers will always be cheaper than robots, and they even continue to work after cataclysmic final battles with Voltron or the neighbor’s lahsa apso. Even if they’re no good at Nintendo, you can make up your own games like backyard wrestling, pitting one worker against another. And unlike your Robotic Operating Buddy, migrant workers often come with their own gun. Happy gaming!

the commune

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Dear the commune:

What’s the deal with Three Dog Night? Scratch that, what the hell IS a Three Dog Night? Or is this just one of them "chicken and the egg" pair-a-cocks that just fucks up your brain to think about it? Peace out.

Stuart Harbury
Whittle, TX


Dear Stuart:

Beats the shit out of us. But we did find out from a used car dealer that the expression "cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey" comes from the Civil War. Weird, huh? Who knew they were drinking that shit back then?

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for leaving you at the altar like that. If you couldn’t read the obvious hints that we didn’t really want to get married, written in lemon juice on our personal stationary and hidden around the house, then you’re in for a lifetime of disappointment and hurt feelings. Buy yourself a clue, and a toaster, girl.

º Last Column: Volume 59
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